


Twisting the Knife

by terminallypretty



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 156,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5536868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminallypretty/pseuds/terminallypretty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balthier collects secrets, as all sky pirates are wont to do - the better to discover all things hidden, treasures ripe for the taking. But Penelo's got more than a few secrets of her own, and he'll use every trick at his disposal to uncover them. And a private wager with Vaan will only make the promised rewards sweeter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            Balthier grimaced over a cup of what passed for coffee at the godsforsaken travesty of an inn they currently had the misfortune to call their own. He hesitated even to consider partaking of the pastries the proprietor had dropped off with a scowl - they had perhaps once been fresh, but that had been many, many days ago at least. The silver plate upon which they rested had perhaps once been clean, but he suspected that had been some years ago, and no amount of elbow grease would remove the tarnish from it at this point - not that any employee would care enough to try. The inn's proprietor did not even employ a laundress, and so Balthier had had no choice but to wear the same clothing he'd donned the day before and attempt to avoid agonizing over the cleanliness of their bed linens.

            They had passed into Balfonheim two days prior, intending to recover the _Strahl_ from Reddas, but his home had been closed up, deserted. Only from the townspeople had they discovered that Reddas was not due back for days. Instead they were forced to seek refuge in the only inn their dwindling coffers would permit - this one, with its musty hallways, threadbare carpets, and apathetic staff.

            Funds and supplies were low, morale was lower. Over weeks of travel, he had felt that he had established something of a rapport with the majority of this ragtag bunch of companions, and yet there remained one lone hold-out.  Balthier had finally come to the disquieting conclusion that Penelo didn't like him. No, not merely that she didn't like him - he was positive she actively _disliked_ him. Not that he had ever cared overly much about whether or not anyone thought well of him - he had, after all, acquired a well-earned reputation as an unrepentant criminal - but he had not, to memory, ever found himself on the wrong end of a woman's esteem. Even the exiled Lady Ashe, though doubtless the most high in the instep female of his acquaintance, tolerated him ably enough.

            To have earned the contempt of the little guttersnipe was galling, to say the least. Oh, she had never voiced it, but he saw it in the minute pursing of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes, the tilt of her impudent nose. Her barely-concealed animosity chafed at him in a way he'd not thought possible. She'd been able to give Basch - a man believed to have murdered her king - the benefit of the doubt, and yet she chose to cut _him_ with those disapproving glances? It was not to be borne.

            And yet he had not confronted her - having never found himself in such a situation before, he had not the first idea as to how one ought to resolve it. Instead, he seethed inwardly as he idly watched her bind her hair up with a thin strip of leather. She had a small bag tucked beneath her arm and was studiously avoiding his gaze in the mirror.       

            Vaan thundered down the stairs of the inn with all the grace of a rampaging behemoth, alighting at the base of the steps with a thud, thus catching Penelo's attention. He snagged a pastry off the plate in front of Balthier, tearing into it as he approached Penelo.

            "You ready?" Vaan asked around a mouthful of sugary scone. Balthier sighed his distaste as crumbs rained down to litter the carpeted floor. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, that the floor had likely not been cleaned in years anyway, but that in itself only evoked further revulsion.

           "Mmm." Penelo tugged at a hank of her hair to ensure it was tightly bound. "I think so." She tossed him the sack. "I'll scout a good place. Think you can find what I need?"

            Vaan opened the sack and poured a small handful of gil into his hand. He pulled a face at the paltry sum, but said, "It might be enough...but I can always lift a few extra gil if necessary."

            "Vaan." It was an admonishment, but more in exasperation than anger. "We'll sell off some stuff if we have to. I want to _earn_ gil, not _steal_ it."

            "Where are you two off to, then?" Balthier abandoned his coffee and scones in favor of the curious interchange between his two youngest companions.

            Penelo's head swiveled toward him, momentarily perplexed, as if she'd forgotten he was present. Also irritating, that - she didn't simply ignore him, she banished him so entirely from her thoughts that his continued existence surprised her.

            Her lips flattened into a thin line and she turned her face away. "Out," she said succinctly.

            "I'll accompany you." The statement escaped him before he had even realized it - perhaps he had subconsciously wished to antagonize her, as she antagonized him with her silent disapproval.

            "Not necessary." She shoved her feet into her boots as she spoke.

            He gave a vaguely condescending chuckle. "Dear girl,  it wasn't a request."

            She froze abruptly in the midst of securing her boot laces, then slowly righted herself. "We really don't need any company," she said finally.

            "On the contrary. Two children alone in Balfonheim? Who knows what mischief you might become embroiled in if left unattended." He savored the irritated flush that spread over her cheeks; they both knew he was being deliberately obtuse.

            "We're orphans. We've been unattended for the better part of three years." Her biting tone did not faze him.

            "Nevertheless," he said, "I can hardly leave you to wander an unfamiliar city alone."

            She made a muffled sound of disgust, but sulkily responded, "Fine. Do as you please." Then she turned abruptly on her heel, making a beeline for the door - but his longer stride ate up the distance between them, and he reached the door first.

            "I _always_ do as I please," he said, catching the handle. "For the moment, it pleases me to see that the both of you stay out of trouble. We can ill afford to lose what few allies we have." He jerked open the door, motioning that she should pass through with a gesture a bit too genteel to fit their current environment.

            If he had expected an acknowledgment of his courtesy, he was doomed for disappointment, for she merely stuck her pert nose in the air and stalked past him out into the street. Vaan trailed after her, signaling his own surprise at her pique with raised eyebrows and a quick shrug in Balthier's direction.

            She had not waited outside for them, but instead had proceeded down the street, forcing Vaan and Balthier to jog to catch up with her. Of course, she acknowledged only Vaan, which irked Balthier more than he cared to admit.

            "You've been here before, right, Balthier?" Vaan asked, breaking the tense silence at last.

            "A few times before, yes. Balfonheim is a bit rustic for me, however, so I've never stayed overly long. I know it well enough, I expect."

            "Then you'd know where the shopping district is? I've got to find something." He hefted the bag containing the last of Penelo's gil in his hand, jingling the coins inside.

            "It's not far from here," Balthier said. "We'll go left at the main thoroughfare -" he stopped abruptly, scowling as he realized that sometime in the last minute or so, Penelo had disappeared. "Where the hell did she go?"

            Vaan glanced around and shrugged when he failed to locate Penelo. "She does that sometimes. You get used to it. She's great at slipping off when no one's looking."

            "Damned obnoxious child." Balthier clenched his jaw against the flow of the bitter words, but they spilled free regardless. "Foolish, contrary chit."

            "Aww, don't take it too personally," Vaan said. "She just doesn't like you."

            Incredulous, Balthier whirled to face him. "And why, pray tell, should I _not_ take that personally?"

            "Well, it's not really _you_ she doesn't like," Vaan clarified. At Balthier's dubious glance, he continued, "Okay, maybe it's a _little_ bit you...but mostly it's just people like you."

            Bemused, Balthier stared. "Do you actually listen to yourself when you speak, or do you simply allow whatever idle thought travels across your mind to fall out of your mouth?"

            Vaan glowered at Balthier. "If you're gonna be an ass, you can just head on back to the inn. I'll find Penelo myself." He turned away and paced towards the main thoroughfare, only mildly surprised that Balthier had kept up with him.

            "Not a chance," Balthier snapped. "You need directions to the commerce district, and _I_ need to ensure that your sticky fingers don't get you apprehended by the authorities."

            "I'm a good pickpocket," Vaan said. "I don't get caught. And I'll find the shops eventually."

            "Be that as it may," Balthier said through clenched teeth, "I will see you both back safely to the inn if it kills me. Or you. Or Penelo." He made a short, irritated sound, and muttered, "Preferably Penelo."

            Vaan sighed. "She used to be really rich, you know."

            "Who?" Balthier asked absently, only half listening, preoccupied with pleasant fantasies of wrapping his fingers around Penelo's slender throat and throttling the reckless girl.

            "Penelo."

            Balthier felt his eyebrows jerk skyward. "Surely not."

            "Yeah. Her family was loaded. Not nobility, but high class for sure. They used to get invited to court a lot. Ashe doesn't remember her, but they met a couple of times before. Of course, Penelo looked a lot different back then, when she had all those fancy dresses and shoes and jewelry and servants to do her hair into those weird styles. Took hours, sometimes. No idea how she could stand it."

            Balthier tried to imagine Penelo done up like a lady, but drew a blank. He couldn't quite imagine the irritating child affecting the trappings and manner of anything but the street urchin she was.

            "You're pulling one over on me, aren't you?" he accused finally.

            Vaan eyed him askance. "Not even a little. 'Course, all that changed when Archadia invaded. Penelo's family were all loyalists, you know, even after the King was killed. Practically all the nobility turned traitor, but her family funneled money and supplies to the Resistance. That's why they were killed."

            The words caught Balthier off-guard and he stumbled. " _Killed_?" he echoed incredulously. "I thought they died serving in the war."

            "Well, the war made a lot of orphans," Vaan acknowledged. "That's how I lost my family. But Penelo lost hers on the steps of the palace, at the edge of a blade. Public execution," he said grimly. "I had to hold her back; she tried to rush the steps. She didn't speak to me for a week, but I figure that was better than letting her die for nothing. She couldn't have stopped it, anyway."

            It was like a red film had clouded his eyes; Balthier was seized by a roiling fury the likes of which he'd never known. As if it had a mind of its own, he felt his hand lash out to grab Vaan by his vest and yank him close. "You _let_ her go to her family's _execution_?" he grated in a livid tone.

            Annoyed, Vaan wrenched himself from Balthier's grip. "I would've stopped her if I could. She wouldn't listen to me. _You_ try keeping her from doing something she's got her mind set on and tell me how it goes. She's stubborn like that, you should know that by now." He brushed futilely at the fabric that Balthier's crushing grip had hopelessly wrinkled. "It was hard enough just to keep her hidden when they arrested her family."

            Balthier pinched the bridge of his nose, unbearably frustrated with Vaan's disjointed storytelling, but unwilling to cut him off and stem the flow of information that might provide insight into Penelo's antipathy towards him. "She was there for that as well?"

            "Yeah. I'd been living with them for about a year, then. Penelo just brought me home with her after my brother died, and they just took care of me from then on. Like I was part of their family. Never complained about the cost, never treated me any different than their own kids. Just made up a room for me and put me in lessons with Penelo." His eyes had gone distant, swamped with memories. "Anyway, the schoolroom was all the way up on the third floor of the house, but we heard the soldiers break down the door. Penelo had never seen it before, but I had. I knew what it meant." His mouth flattened into a firm line. "There wasn't time to get everyone out safely, but Penelo was already with me. I stole a change of clothing for us from the servants and hid our clothes in the back of a wardrobe. Then we went downstairs to blend in with the other servants. They'd already captured Penelo's brothers and when they finally brought out her parents in chains, that's when Penelo realized what was happening. And then her mother - Linna - saw us. I thought she might accidentally give us away, but she just looked at me, and then she nodded, just a tiny bit so the guards wouldn't notice. I think she knew what was going to happen. I think she was telling me to keep Penelo safe." He sighed then, a wistful sound. "The guards searched the whole house for her, but they weren't looking for her amongst the servants, so we managed to escape."

            They had crossed into the commerce district, the cobblestone streets lined with vendors at their carts, hawking their wares. Balthier stared straight ahead, his throat unaccountably tight with the sensation of creeping dread one gets upon witnessing a calamity suffered by another person, helpless to stop it from occuring, destined only to watch events unfold. He knew how this particular drama ended - with Penelo orphaned, cast into the streets these past three years. And yet somehow that was not enough; he wanted the tale laid before him in its entirety.

            "Go on," he said finally, when it became clear that Vaan had lapsed into a silence that might well be permanent. "You were saying?"

            Vaan cleared his throat awkwardly and scratched at the back of his neck. "Now that I think about it, I'm not sure Penelo'd want me to."

            "What could it possibly hurt?" Balthier stretched his lips into what he hoped approximated a bland smile.

            Vaan slanted him a skeptical look, then sighed. "Just...don't tell her I told you, okay?"

            "I wouldn't dream of it," Balthier responded evenly.

            Vaan hesitated briefly, but finally continued on in a low voice. "They took over the house, gutted it, sold off everything in it to fund the Archadian Empire. Everything. Penelo had this terrible look about her for weeks - shock, I guess. She never talked about it, but once I caught her just staring at this Archadian girl walking down the palace steps, and I realized the dress she was wearing used to belong to Penelo." He sighed, shaking his head. "Losing everything might've been bearable...but the other street kids were cruel to her. She talked different, walked different, acted different, because she'd been raised like a lady. I looked out for her best as I could, but I couldn't always stop them from pulling her hair, stealing her blankets at night, throwing things at her." He shot a guilty glance at Balthier and raked his hands through his hair as if the memory pained him. "Too often I'd come back to Lowtown and she'd be sitting outside the entrance, huddled in a corner because the other kids had locked her out. She never said anything against them, though - and they got used to her, eventually, after she'd unlearned all her fancy manners."

            Balthier, who had never considered that Penelo might have once possessed any sort of manners that might accurately be termed _fancy_ , was intrigued. "And how long does unlearning one's manners generally take?"

            "Took Penelo a couple of weeks, as I remember it. I think the table manners went first. She used to take these tiny bites, but the other kids would steal her food if she didn't eat it fast enough."

            Balthier frowned. That particular bit of information had set off an unfamiliar pang in his chest. It couldn't be sympathy - such an emotion was a fatal flaw in his line of work.

            "But she was kind to them even when they were cruel to her. It took a while, but they warmed up to her. And that's why she doesn't like you," Vaan finished, as though he were imparting some great truth.

            Once again, Balthier was left wondering if he hadn't missed some vital part of the conversation. "I beg your pardon?" he ventured.

            "Your kind has always been cruel to her," Vaan clarified. "The nobility, they were always coming to her family for loans, for financial advice and that kind of thing, but those same nobles snubbed them in public. They were good enough to beg favors from in private, but not good enough to be _seen_ associating with. Two-faced, lying bastards, all of them." He shrugged. "At least the commoners were honest about it - when they didn't like her, she knew it. And when they learned to like her, she knew that, too."

            Balthier seized Vaan's arm to direct him to the left and down a side street off the main thoroughfare, and said, "And you think _I'm_ nobility?"

            Vaan fixed him with a disbelieving look that plainly said, _Aren't you?_

To which Balthier had no ready reply. Perhaps he was losing his touch, for he had thought he had injected just the right amount of incredulity into his tone, but Vaan clearly had not fallen for the deliberate obfuscation.

            "I'm not," he finally grated. Again, that arch look from Vaan. " _Anymore,_ " Balthier amended. "I gave up that life years ago, and all that it entailed."

            Vaan slanted Balthier an aggrieved glance. "It's not about the _things_ ," he said. "It's about the way you act. You might have left it behind, but _it_ hasn't left _you_."

            "I don't believe I take your meaning."

            Vaan huffed in annoyance. "You act _just_ like them," he said. "Bored, arrogant, scornful. It reminds her of things she'd rather forget, I think."

            Balthier scoffed. "And for that she plays Lady Disdain?"

            "No." Vaan whirled abruptly and slapped his palm against the stone wall, preventing Balthier from proceeding down the narrow alley. "She'd leave well enough alone if you didn't antagonize her with all of your condescending shit. We haven't been children in years, so you'd damn well better stop treating us as such."

            "Neither of you belongs here," Balthier replied in a scathing tone. "I cannot imagine what possessed her highness to permit your company. I'd have sent you packing straight back home."

           " _Home_?" Vaan echoed incredulously. "What home do we have? Rabanastre's a shell, rotting from the inside out. We've got the clothes on our backs and nothing else. There's _nothing_ to return to. At least out here we've got a chance."

            "A chance for what? A short life and a swift death? _That_ is the risk -"

            "D'you think we're stupid?" Vaan snapped. "We know the risks. I'd rather die on my terms than slowly starve in Rabanastre. I'd rather die fighting for a chance at a better life than live beneath Archadian rule. You couldn't possibly understand - you're in it for the money, Balthier, so don't pretend you're better than us."

            The contempt in Vaan's voice stoked Balthier's ire, and before he knew it he had reached out and seized the boy by his vest, dragging him close. "Don't presume to guess at my motivations," Balthier snarled. "I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my affairs and stow your opinions. Had I wished to hear them, I assure you, I would have asked."

            If he has expected Vaan to be cowed, he was doomed to disappointment, for Vaan merely set his chin and narrowed his eyes. "Same goes," he said. "You don't have to like it. But we're sticking around, so you might as well get used to it."

            With a disgusted exhalation, Balthier thrust Vaan away. "Do what you will," he said. "I've said my piece."

            Vaan straightened his rumpled vest. "You're lucky you had this conversation with me instead of Penelo," he said mildly. "She'd have given you a piece of her mind and more."

            "Please," Balthier scoffed. "What could she have done? Reprimanded me to death?"

            Vaan chuckled, his good humor restored, but by what Balthier could not guess. Amiable once again, he clapped his hand over Balthier's shoulder. "One of these days," he said, "you'll eat those words. I only hope I'm there when you do." He nodded to indicate the shopping district visible just a ways down where the alley ended. "Just down there, right? Come on, then, Penelo'll be waiting."

\---

            Half an hour later, Balthier and Vaan had made their way from the outskirts of the shopping district to the crowded central plaza. Balthier wasn't certain how Vaan intended to locate Penelo, but Vaan seemed fairly confident that he would find her. They wended their way through throngs of people, at last coming across a thick crowd of people standing shoulder-to-shoulder, rendering the path impassable.

            "Ahh, she's over here!" Vaan tossed over his shoulder at Balthier.

            "How can you _possibly_ know that?" Balthier shot back.

            Vaan shrugged. "She always draws a crowd in Rabanastre. No reason to expect any different here." And he elbowed his way through the crowd, leaving Balthier to squeeze through in his wake. The masses reluctantly parted to admit them, though not without considerable grumbling.

            Once they'd shuffled through, Balthier was surprised to discover that Vaan's guess had been correct after all; at the center of the cluster of curious onlookers was Penelo...though not Penelo as Balthier had ever seen her.

            She was balanced on the pointed toes of one foot, her back arched and arms raised, hands clasping her other foot, which was extended behind her and lifted up over her head. Balthier hadn't known humes could bend that way, but she made it look natural and simple. As he watched, enrapt, she released her foot, gracefully lowering it until her pointed toes touched the ground, then raised the opposite leg before her, higher and higher, until he would have sworn her nose touched her knee. This, he was sure, ought not to have been possible - but she seemed perfectly at ease, oblivious to the crowd that watched her perform.

            Unaware he had been gaping along with them, he jerked back to alertness as Vaan nudged him in the ribs. There was something disquietingly familiar about her just now, though he could not place it.

            "She's good, huh?" Vaan said.

            "What the devil is she doing?" Balthier asked, shaking off the last vestiges of bewilderment.

            "Stretching. Draws a lot of people, but they'll stay for the performance."

            "I see," Balthier murmured, though he didn't see at all. But Vaan wasn't listening; instead he strode forward, lifting his purchase - a leather-skinned ball the size of a small melon - in the air.

            "Hey, Penelo," he said. "I found one! You ready?"

            "Mmm," she muttered. "Give me a moment." And she concluded her stretches at last, and turned to face him. He tossed the ball towards her; she performed a dainty twist and caught the ball with the point of her extended toes. A murmur of appreciation spread through the audience. Balthier watched, baffled, as she tossed the ball high into the air, turned a quick handspring, and caught the ball behind her on the pad of her foot. Another flutter of excitement from the crowd; Balthier was briefly jostled as the people pressed closer.

            "See?" Vaan nudged him again. "Good, right?"

            The crowd certainly seemed to think so, anyway. Balthier had never seen such a performance, but it had clearly taken quite a bit of practice to perfect. Not quite a dance, not quite a sport - Balthier had no name for it.

            "What do you call that?" he asked. "What she's doing there?"

            Vaan shrugged. "Dunno. Sort of juggling, maybe? She had lots of dance lessons back when her family was around. She didn't much care for them, because her brothers got to learn martial arts and sword fighting. But she said at least it was good for her coordination." He scratched at the back of his neck. "Don't suppose it matters, though - she can make a fair bit of gil just showing off for a few minutes. Hopefully it'll put us back in the black."   

            A burst of applause rippled through the crowd as Penelo tucked the ball against her foot and turned a succession of  cartwheels, all while keeping the ball lodged firmly where she'd held it. Still, she appeared to be in her own world - she was focused solely on her task, not at all on the multitudes of people surrounding her, not on the steady clink of coins being tossed into a small, open sack that she'd obviously placed there for exactly that purpose. She was unmindful even of Balthier's presence, though he, like Vaan, was front and center. Again, that vague feeling of recognition struck, but the threads of memory drifted out of reach even as he snatched at them.

            "She's made a killing already," Vaan murmured. "We've taken down marks that didn't yield so much gil."

            The statement - factual though it was - only served as an additional annoyance. She'd brought it more gil in a few minutes than they'd earned in days, and it rankled that she could manage it without violence, without theft.

            "So it seems," he returned snidely, loudly enough that Penelo could not fail to overhear. "Making a public spectacle of oneself pays well."

            In retrospect he would realize that Vaan's swift sidestep ought to have been a clue as to what was to come. But in the moment, all he had time to acknowledge was the bright flare of ire in Penelo's eyes as she lightly tossed the ball into the air with a flick of her toes, then spun abruptly, her foot solidly connecting with the ball in midair to send it rocketing towards him. There was no time to move, to react - it hit him with such force that the air was wrenched from his lungs, his knees collapsed beneath him. Blackness threatened, but he gasped and gasped and finally drew enough air to stave it off. When the blood ceased to rush in his ears, he gathered himself together enough to finally be aware of the raucous laughter of the dispersing crowd, of Vaan's barely-stifled chuckles and the proffered hand he held out, ostensibly to help Balthier to his feet once again.

            "Can't say you didn't deserve it," Vaan was saying. "I knew you'd get yours, but I didn't expect it to come quite so soon. She's got great aim, but I still didn't wanna risk standing too close, you understand."

            Penelo, on the other hand, was busily collecting her things, entirely unconcerned with how Balthier fared. She gave a quick tug on the strings of the bag holding her newly-gotten bounty of gil and hefted it in her hand.

            "Not bad," she said, tossing it over to Vaan, who caught it one-handed. "For a _public spectacle_ , I mean." 

            " _That_ ," Balthier bit out, when he had regained enough breath to manage speech, "was unnecessarily vindictive."

            Penelo tipped her nose in the air in stubborn superiority. "Perhaps next time you'll think before you speak," she said. "I don't suffer fools gladly." And she turned on her heel and stalked angrily away before Balthier could manage to get another word in.

            A week before, he might've been amused at her pique, perhaps even mocked her supercilious airs as masquerading as her betters. Now that he knew that to not to be the case, he wondered if perhaps his condescension grated on her enough to provoke her into falling back into old habits. He recognized now the clean, clipped syllables ripe with scorn, the derision in her eyes, the tightly leashed rage transmuted into scathing words. He'd given her reason to loathe him practically from their first meeting - she had likely wanted to find him gallant, a cut above the other noblemen of her acquaintance. Instead he had proved himself at best apathetic, and at worst, arrogant and selfish.  

            Perhaps he had earned that blow after all.

            Vaan whistled shrilly, and Balthier turned to acknowledge him just an instant before the bag of gil struck him in the chest. He caught at it reflexively, wincing as his abused flesh protested even the light contact. Dear gods, had the chit actually managed to _bruise_ him?

            Vaan jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Come on," he said. "She'll calm down in a bit. We need to stock up on supplies. She'll be all right on her own."

            Balthier absently rubbed his sore midsection. "That," he said finally, "has become quite clear."

            Smothering a snicker, Vaan said, "You didn't _really_ think she needed protection, did you? She may have gotten stuck with dance lessons while her brothers were in martial arts, but they taught her everything they knew. She's kicked my ass more than a few times. You're just lucky she went easy on you."

            "For the gods' sake, enough," Balthier growled.

            "Well, you _are_ ," Vaan persisted. "She _could_ have aimed for your -"

            Balthier whirled on him with a glare so fierce that Vaan abruptly fell silent, holding up his hands in a gesture of placation.

            "Okay, okay," he said. "I'm shutting up."

            " _Good_." Balthier snapped. "Now, _you_ will return to the Inn, and _I_ will do the provisioning."

            "Aw, come on," Vaan wheedled. "I shut up, didn't I?"

            Balthier squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers to his forehead in aggravation. " _What_ part of that have you misconstrued as a request?"

            Vaan threw up his hands with a disgusted sound. "Fine!" He turned to go, then tossed over his shoulder, "I hope she _does_ aim for your balls next time!"

            Balthier watched Vaan go with a shake of his head, and then started back towards the shops. If he had anything to say about it, there wouldn't _be_ a next time. He'd just experienced proof positive that Penelo was unpredictable when riled - he'd be better off charming her than antagonizing her. He owed it to himself - at the very least to secure his continuing good health.

            After all, she was just an orphan girl, probably starved for a kind word, a bit of affection. How hard could it be to restore himself to her good graces?

           


	2. Chapter 2

Balthier had expected to enjoy a bit of peace in which to acquire the necessary provisions, considering he'd been temporarily relieved of Vaan and Penelo's company. It hadn't been such an unreasonable expectation, really. Ashe and Basch both needed to remain out sight as much as possible given that they were both widely believed to be dead, and Fran had no interest in mingling with the provincial Balfonheim locals who were exposed to Viera only rarely and thus tended to stare at her as though she were some sort of oddity. Therefore it was not unrealistic to expect that he would be their designated provisioner, given that he could move about the city mostly unnoticed. And he hadn't particularly cared to have two meddlesome children traipsing after him in the process - no matter that it was their gil that would purchase the necessary supplies.

            But as luck - or some particularly perverse arbiter of fate - would have it, he turned a corner down a side street just in time to witness Penelo disappearing into the shop he had intended to patronize. Why she had chosen that particular shop to enter he could not guess - she had never left her own small corner of the world to the best of his knowledge, and so she could not possibly know that the owner of this store was perhaps the only honest merchant in the whole of Balfonheim.

            But she had gone in, and, unscrupulous pirate that he was, he could not resist a bit of spying. No, _spying_ seemed far too common and distasteful. Reconnaissance. Same general idea, perhaps, but a bit more palatable and refined. And he wondered - what would she even do in the shop? She'd given over her last bit of gil to Vaan for the purchase of that ball, and she'd tossed the sack of coins she'd gainfully earned to him as well. Despite her earlier protestations, was she not above a bit of petty theft?

            The large windows of the store allowed him enough of a view inside to see that she'd turned down a narrow aisle and would not be able to see him enter, so he swiftly and silently slipped through the open doorway and off to the side, to peek through the shelves laden with wares in search of her.

            He caught a glimpse of her golden head through the bare spaces in the shelving, watching curiously as she idly browsed the merchandise, seemingly looking for nothing in particular. She touched nothing, kept her hands firmly at her sides, but every so often her fingers would curl as if in anticipation of holding an object in her hands.

            She strolled slowly through the shop, and he followed as closely as he was able and still remain out of sight. Finally she passed the useful goods - potions, ethers, various ailment cure-alls, arrows, and ammunition - and hesitated at the racks and racks of clothing lining the walls. For a moment she seemed to be wrestling with herself, whether or not to wander through, then finally she set her shoulders and stepped resolutely forward.

            Her steps were slow and purposeful; she glanced dismissively left and right, and finally she paused, stopped, and turned to examine more closely a set of garments hanging on the wall. He rounded a corner to give himself a better vantage point and eased as close as he could without entering her line of sight.

            Probably to her, the clothing seemed interesting and exotic. Rabanastran society leaned more towards the conservative, simple lines and dark, neutral colors. This set was an eye-catching shade of scarlet, with gold embroidery at the hems and cuffs in delicate swirls depicting leaves and flowers. At once practical and pretty, the loose pants would be easy to move in, but the fabric was light and airy, cut fashionably and in the local style - which was to say, it might bare more than it covered. Such an outfit would be nothing short of scandalous in a place like Rabanastre.

            So she liked bright colors, then. Unsurprising, as her own clothing could only be called drab and unappealing. But then, if Vaan was to be believed, it had been nicked from servants, so perhaps it was to be expected. Too, her current uniform had seen better days, what color it might once have had fading to gray and brown in the collected grime and dust of their travels. 

            In the first true display of interest he'd witnessed thus far, she reached out to finger the hem of the garment...but at the last second, she curled her fingers into a fist and drew back as if afraid she might singe herself on the vibrant fabric. For a moment she ducked her head and pressed her fingers to her eyes. Then she shook her head wistfully, turned determinedly away, and continued on down the aisle and out of sight.

            Somehow he was left disappointed. Her restraint both astonished and baffled him - surely it couldn't have hurt simply to touch the clothing, so why hadn't she? Yet she had seemed sincerely distraught, had pulled herself back from the brink, steadfastly resisted even the minutest temptation. To the best of his knowledge all women enjoyed pretty things - where was the harm in simply touching?

            "Are you _spying_ on me?" The furious whisper from behind him pierced his thoughts, and he barely masked his surprise. He half-turned, pasting on an expression of bewilderment. Somehow she'd circled round the back of the shop and discovered his hiding place without attracting his notice. But then, she _did_ seem to have a penchant for slipping away, so perhaps he ought not be too surprised.

            "Spying is such a distateful word. Besides," he said, dangling the pouch of coins Vaan had given him, "there are necessities to be acquired and a limited number of shops in which to do so. Would you suggest I inquire if you are within before conducting my business?"

            Her color was high, her annoyance writ upon her face as if in ink. Her fists were clenched at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically as if she were imagining sinking her nails into his throat to tear out his jugular.

            "You expect me to believe that you _weren't_ spying on me? That you ended up in the same shop purely by chance?" she suggested doubtfully.

            As she still looked vaguely murderous - hardly a good omen for him - he sidestepped her out into the aisle before responding: "I merely said that 'spying' was a distasteful word. I never said it wasn't accurate."

            Her wordless sound of fury drew the attention of more than one other patron, and she stalked angrily after Balthier - but despite her predilection for violence, he didn't imagine she would be driven to murder in a crowded shop. Alas, maiming was not outside the realm of possibility as she'd more than proved earlier. Best, then, to give an effort to pacifying her before her penchant for inflicting bodily harm was given the opportunity to come out.

            But as he approached the clothing section, she drew to a halt with a harsh intake of breath. And as he lifted the garment that had so caught her interest from its hook on the wall, he realized he'd somehow made a crucial mistake. Her face drained of expression and color, her shoulders slumping. The fury that had so gripped her had died an instant death, replaced with something akin to...shame, he supposed. He hadn't had more than a passing acquaintance with the emotion in years.

            Too late, he recalled that she had once owned a myriad of finery - if her family had been as wealthy as Vaan had claimed, probably more than she could wear in a lifetime. Though her reduced circumstances hadn't destroyed her enjoyment of pretty things, her finances almost certainly did not permit the purchasing of them.

            She stared at the floor, studiously avoiding even glancing at the outfit he held in his hands. And he felt almost...guilty. As if he had inadvertently taunted her with something that remained forever out of her reach. Thoughtless though he might occasionally be, he did not enjoy inflicting cruelty, even unintentionally. 

            But then - she had earned enough gil in just a few minutes to justify the purchase of a new set of clothes. No one could fault her for it; even Vaan had more appropriate clothing than her own dull and overworn outfit.

            Somehow her discomfiture was harder to bear than her anger. She seemed utterly defeated, as if he had stumbled upon some inherent weakness in her that she expected to be exploited. Her downcast eyes made him feel as though he had lead her to her own execution and she merely waited on him to let fall the axe. It caused an unbearable tightness in his chest, his throat.

            He thrust the hanger towards her. "Purchase it. You've more than earned it." Perhaps it had come out a little more gruffly than he'd anticipated, but he didn't think it had merited the sudden backward skitter she performed.

            "No." She clasped her hands behind her back lest he try to force the garments into them. "What would _I_ do with something like that? It's not as if I've got any place to wear it."

            "That hardly signifies. You want it. You ought to have it." Again he gestured with the hanger, again she took an overlarge step backwards.

            "No. I can't." But he thought her lower lip had trembled a bit. "We need supplies. Not...not something so frivolous."

            He scoffed. "Pet, you are in dire need of something other than those rags," he said, indicating her current garb. "They've quite outlived their usefulness; they're better suited to the rubbish bin. As far as I am concerned, this _is_ a necessity."

            She gasped as if he'd struck her and again shame pierced him as he saw the bright sheen of tears fill her eyes. Why his assessment of her clothing had wounded her he did not know, but surely she knew they were hardly the height of fashion. Why did she have to be so bloody contrary? He had never imagined he would ever find himself in the position of trying to convince a woman she _deserved_ a new set of clothing.

            She collected herself, swiping at her eyes to banish the betraying wetness. "I don't want them," she said again, as obvious a lie as he'd ever heard. "I don't need them. I never asked your opinion of my clothes. They suit me well enough. I don't want anything else. I _don't_."

            And as she turned and fled, he wondered if she had been trying to convince him or herself.

            He sighed - he couldn't even perform a simple act of kindness without managing to upset her, it seemed. Holding the sack of coins in his palm, he assessed its weight - though Penelo's earnings would doubtless buy the clothes and supplies besides, he somehow imagined that if he used any of it towards the purchase of the clothing it would only pile guilt upon her.

            Regretfully he replaced the clothing upon the wall hook and instead collected the necessary items that would replenish their stock of goods for a while at least. The remainder of the gil would likely more than cover the cost of lodging accommodations for probably another week or so.

            Yet while he perused the wares, he found his gaze straying back to the clothing section, to where that damned scarlet outfit hung in silent mockery. The memory of Penelo's stricken face seemed burned into his mind, haunting him with even the briefest blink.

            She would not thank him for spending the party's funds to purchase it. But she did not know that he had his own funds. Ill-gotten though they might have been, his gil spent just as well as anyone else's. The paltry sum the garment wanted would hardly put a dent in his own finances...and perhaps he owed it to her, after his thoughtless comments.

            It was in his hands, bought and paid for, before he was even consciously aware of having made the decision.

            ---

            On the way back to the inn, his spur-of-the-moment purchase burned in his mind like an ember. Why had he even bothered? He was not so desperate for female attention that he needed to cozy up to a volatile street urchin like her. He could snap his fingers in any bar and have a plethora of women vying for his attention.  

            It was only that her blatant dislike made her into a challenge - and he had never been one to thumb his nose at a challenge. She wasn't even beautiful. Oh, she could at least lay claim to prettiness, he supposed, but she was ever bedraggled, her cheeks smudged with dirt or glowing with the sweat of a hard day's trek. She made no concessions towards beauty; she was content to let her hair escape its plait, wayward strands curling wildly, ever blowing her bangs away from her eyes. He doubted she'd even had a proper bath in weeks.

            And yet he'd still been moved to see to it that the ungrateful chit was properly attired. He stopped abruptly, too annoyed with himself to continue the journey back. He didn't want to see _her_ \- not pitifully clothed as she currently was, and not acceptably clothed as she would be did he give her the garment he'd foolishly purchased.

            To his right, a nondescript tavern. Ideal to fit his needs - namely, an hour or so of peace, a pint of ale, and perhaps a bit of female companionship. The sweet, ego-flattering sort, not the waspish, sharp-tongued sort that had been inflicted upon him of late.

            He made a rough, disgusted sound in his throat - still the maddening wench invaded his thoughts! But that was nothing a pint or two wouldn't cure, and so he strode into the tavern to take a seat at a table. Soon enough, a pretty dark-haired barmaid in a low-cut dress came round to take his order and shortly thereafter brought by a tankard of ale. She had a lush figure and practically shoved her bountiful breasts in his face in a blatant display of interest, but somehow he found the overt display almost distasteful. With a pout of disappointment, she accepted his payment and sauntered off to the next patron.

            He leaned back in his chair, eyeing the blonde maid who stood behind the bar speculatively and briefly considered attempting to secure her attention. The notion passed as quickly as it arose; though she had fine green eyes, her hair was too brassy and coarse-looking to suit his taste. He'd have preferred something a bit paler, softer.

            Aghast, he scrubbed his hands over his face, staring down into his tankard with the startling realization that he was _still_ thinking of Penelo. Worse, he had dismissed two women, finding them lacking in comparison. What the devil had the little hellion done to him? He drained his tankard in one long swallow, gesturing for another even as he suspected that there wasn't enough ale in all of Balfonheim to cure what ailed him.

            He'd just discounted the possibility of making a half-hearted attempt for a red-headed beauty when the legs of the chair next to him scraped across the floor and Vaan plopped himself down into it, signaling for a tankard of ale.

            Balthier gritted his teeth, irritated at being caught in his cups by the obnoxious boy. "Move along," he said brusquely. "This establishment is no place for a boy. I thought I had instructed you to go back to the inn."

            "You did," Vaan acknowledged jovially. "And I did. For a few minutes. Got a bit of gil off Ashe; she sent me out for something edible. This looked as good a place as any."

            Of course, it would, given the sort of low-class places Vaan had likely frequented all his life. But Vaan's company was exhausting at the best of times, and Balthier didn't care to have his temporary sanctuary invaded.

            "I'm looking for a companion. Your presence will hinder my chances," Balthier snapped.

            "A _companion_? Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" Vaan chortled. "Looked to me like you weren't doing so well, anyway."

            But he _had_ been - it was only that he didn't care enough to pursue any of the women available. The barmaid dropping off drinks at a neighboring table had all but crawled into his lap, not that Vaan had been present to witness it.

            "Muzzle yourself before I do it for you," he growled. "There's not a woman in Ivalice I couldn't have if I wanted her."

            Vaan snorted. "I'd take that bet."

            "Boy, I'd bet the _Strahl_ on it. Not that you have anything with which to wager."

            "I will if we make it through this alive. Ashe said she'd reward us well." He cast an inquisitive glance at Balthier. "How well d'you think rescuing princesses pays these days?"

            Considering the riches stored in Dalmasca's treasury, probably disgustingly well. "You can't expect me to agree to the promise of _future_ riches," Balthier said.

            Vaan shrugged. "What does it matter? Either we succeed, in which case there's a clear winner, or we fail, in which case we die, and no one gets anything anyway."

            The idiot had a valid point. Balthier shrugged. "All right, it's a deal. Choose the target."

            Vaan smirked. "Penelo."

            Balthier lurched back in his chair. "I beg your pardon."

            "Why? Did I stutter?" Vaan linked his fingers behind his head, that damnable smirk still etched upon his face. A face that Balthier suddenly considered badly in need of a fist. 

            "Have you gone daft?" Balthier snarled. "I _cannot_ seduce Penelo."

            "I know. You don't have a snowball's chance in hell. Guess that means I've won, huh? I'll be taking ownership of the _Strahl_ , then. Always wanted my own airship." Vaan stretched out, hooked his fingers around his tankard, and took a long, satisfied swallow.

            "No, damn it, I mean to say that it is poor form to poach from among one's compatriots. That's a fine way to end up saddled with a clingy, lovestruck woman one neither wants nor needs." Balthier shuddered in revulsion - that was the stuff of nightmares.

            "That hardly matters, considering you couldn't get Penelo if you were the last man in Ivalice. She won't have you," Vaan said smugly.

            Balthier stared at Vaan in consternation. "You'd _truly_ inflict me upon Penelo?"

            A shrug, so careless it grated upon Balthier's raw nerves. "I might be concerned if you had any chance of succeeding. But you don't, so it's pointless."

            Balthier paused a moment in consideration. True, Penelo patently disliked him. It was also true, however, that he had not gone to any particular effort to affect any change in that regard. He'd never wanted for female attention - but Penelo presented a particular challenge. Unpredictable and contrary to a fault, he could not actually say he was certain he would succeed with her. That, in itself, would almost be worth it. He had become too accustomed to women flinging themselves at him - of course one who did not would be something of a novelty.

            Too, there was the matter of the clothing he'd purchased for her. In this situation, he could write it off as a part of the wager and be done with it without agonizing over it any further.

            He mulled this over in his head for a few moments. "You realize you cannot speak to her of this, correct?"

            Vaan chuckled. "You've screwed your chances enough without me having to ruin it for you."

            "You've said." Balthier drained his second tankard. "I happen to disagree. If you'll excuse me, I've got some business to attend to. Do try not to get into any trouble on your way back." He considered this a moment. "On second thought, do - having you out of the way shall make this wager that much easier to win."

            "Nah, someone's got to keep you honest," Vaan retorted. "And I wouldn't miss you getting shot down for the world."

           Vaan's certainty was grating, but it would make Balthier's success all the sweeter. Should he succeed, at any rate. If the exasperating girl could just see her way into conforming to expectations for once in her miserable life.

            "Were I you, I wouldn't           count on that. Just be prepared to live with the consequences." Balthier summoned a particularly licentious grin that had Vaan reaching out to grab at his collar.

            "If you're anything less than completely respectful..." he warned.

            Balthier jerked out of Vaan's grasp easily. " _That_ wasn't part of the deal," he chided. "I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my _affair_."

            And Vaan's unintelligible growl of rage more than made up for the previous aggravation Balthier had experienced at his hands. Balthier left the tavern in a far more amiable mood than he'd been in when he'd entered.

            --

            As Balthier entered the inn, he was greeted with the sound of feminine laughter. He proceeded down the hall to the common room, and a quick peek in yielded Ashe, Fran, and Penelo seated at a low table, conversing over cups of tea.

            Ashe was bent over her cup, helplessly laughing, and Fran's mouth curved in amusement - she was less given to laughter than most, which made this rare show of emotion especially noteworthy. Penelo merely looked nonplussed; golden eyebrows arched over wide, surprised eyes.

            "I don't know why it's so funny," she muttered. "He was hateful; he deserved it."

            "Of course he did," Ashe sighed, recovering herself somewhat. "I'm just pleased that someone's managed to put him in his place. Oh, that is rich. He shall never live that down."

            There could be no doubt as to what they were discussing - clearly, Penelo had seen fit to regale them with the story of his embarrassment at her hands. _Perfect_. This day had only needed an extra bit of humiliation to complete it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head with an annoyed exhalation of breath.

            Fran's right ear twitched - her hearing was more acute than a hume's would have been - and she glanced over toward the doorway near which Balthier lingered. She gave a subtle shrug to him and an almost congratulatory salute to Penelo, as if to say _job well done_.

            But then, Fran had been telling him that his arrogance would be the death of him for years. Fickle, disloyal woman.

            "Well, really," Penelo grumbled. "He shouldn't have been so insufferable. He didn't _have_ to come; we didn't even want him to."

            Ashe patted Penelo's hand in feminine sympathy. Balthier considered interrupting before he could be maligned any further. But then a slow smile blossomed across Penelo's face, the likes of which he hadn't seen since they'd first met in Rabanastre. It lit her eyes; she sparkled with joy. This girl wasn't merely pretty; this girl was beautiful. It changed her so utterly that for a pure, shining moment he could almost see her genteel upbringing in the perfect slope of her shoulders, the way she delicately held the teacup in her hands, the demure tilt of her head.

            And she said, with a lilting trill of laughter and perhaps only the slightest tinge of wickedness, "I really wish you could've seen his face when he went down."

            Vindictive wench.


	3. Chapter 3

Vaan returned a short time later, carrying with him a large pot and a few loaves of freshly-baked white bread that filled the musty air of the inn with what must've been its first pleasant aroma in a decade or more. He spared a scowl for Balthier as he shouldered past to deliver the food to the common room, where the women were still crowded round the table.

            "Ohhh," Balthier heard Penelo's low sigh of pleasure. "That smells wonderful. Just a moment; I'll go get some bowls from the innkeeper."

            She appeared in the doorway a moment later and jerked in surprise to find Balthier lingering in the corridor without. For a moment, she merely stared, horrified and frozen in place - then a slow flush spread across her cheeks and her gaze dropped guiltily, clearly wondering how much he'd overheard of their earlier conversation.

            He could have let her wallow in her discomfort, but he had a wager to win, and he'd not work his way into her good graces by continuing to provoke her. So instead of castigating her for her loose tongue, he leaned casually against the wall, and said, "You were right."

            Her brows winged upwards in disbelief, her eyes zeroed in on his face, first searching, then narrowing suspiciously. "I beg your pardon?"

            He shrugged. "A man is entitled to a change of heart. I've realized that I behaved like a boor and might have even - a tiny bit, mind you - deserved your retribution." At her doubtful glance, he added, "What - is that truly so hard to believe?"

            "From you? Yes." There was no sarcasm in the retort, just a plain bluntness that ought to have irritated him but didn't. That seeking gaze was becoming uncomfortable, as if she would peer hard enough to see into his soul and reveal his sins.

            "Have it as you will," he said. "You'd best fetch the bowls and utensils. I shall summon Basch." He shouldered away from the wall, collecting the bag of provisions he'd set nearby.

            Still she did not move. "Why are you being so...so..."

            He arched his brows quizzically. "So....?" he prompted.

            "So _pleasant_." At this, her brows drew together in a frown, as if she could not quite believe that she had used the word in connection with him.

            He gave a low chuckle; if anything, it only perplexed her further. "Suffice it to say," he said, absently rubbing his stomach, "that I have learned it is safer to err on the side of caution with you, lest I provoke you to violence. I did rather enjoy your show, by the way. It was most...enlightening." He favored her with a roguish grin.

            She gasped; a wild flush crept slowly over her cheeks. He couldn't decide if her wide eyes conveyed more shock or horror. Her mouth opened as if to rebuke him for his cheek, but somehow she couldn't find the words.

            Quite suddenly the realization struck him that she was utterly ignorant of flirtation, had attributed malice to his comment when none had been intended. Another obstacle - if he were to succeed with her at all, he couldn't expect her to be held in thrall to the same tired lines that had lured in every other woman he'd pursued.

            "That was not an insult," he said, vaguely aware of the bemusement in his tone. "Have you _no_ experience with flirtation?"

            She jerked as if he'd struck her. "How could I have? I was..." Here she hesitated, appalled, whether at what she had been about to reveal, or his insinuation that he'd been attempting to flirt with her he could not say.

            "You were what?"

            "Nothing!" She skittered back a few steps, her voice unnaturally high. "Really. Nothing. It's hardly worth mentioning."

            Which likely meant that it was very much worth mentioning indeed. It would seem that little Penelo was in possession of a secret. Interesting...

            "Penelo?" Ashe's voice startled Penelo so badly that she jumped. Ashe poked her head into the corridor from the common room, her lips curving into a sly smirk when she saw Balthier. "Have you got the bowls?" she inquired.

            But Penelo's eyes were still fixed firmly on Balthier, as if she were a rabbit unwilling tear her gaze away from a wolf - that would be him, he supposed - lest he pounce and catch her unaware.

            "She was just going," he said, inclining his head.

            Penelo blinked, took a shuddering breath, and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I'm sorry." Slowly, as if Balthier might still pose a threat, she turned and disappeared down the corridor.

            Ashe rounded on Balthier with a perplexed frown. "What did you _do_ to that poor girl?" she scolded.

            "I haven't the faintest," he said, just as baffled as she. Slinging the bag of provisions over his shoulder, he stalked toward the stairs, resolved to ponder the strange episode later.

            ---

            For all that it had come from a tavern whose cleanliness Balthier would have put only a step or two above the inn in which they were currently residing, the stew and bread that Vaan had acquired were both satisfying and filling. But then it was also true that they hadn't been eating quite as well as they might've in their trek across Ivalice - and one's standards did tend to lower a bit when one was hungry and for the last several weeks most of one's meals had been cold and bland.

            Certainly it was better than anything the inn would have served them, and there were no complaints as to the quality of the food as they passed around chunks of bread and devoured them along with the stew.

            Balthier glanced at Penelo, who was seated as far from him as possible, concentrating solely on her stew. She spared not a look for anyone else at the table, eating mechanically, as if it were merely a task to soldier on through until completion, whereupon she could excuse herself from the table. It really was uncanny; she moved as if eating were ritualistic - it began with a smooth, purposeful motion with the spoon from the bowl to her lips, chewing exactly twelve times, swallowing, and then repeating the process. It took precisely twenty seconds per repetition; her accuracy was astounding.

            A sound - not quite a cough, more a determined clearing of the throat - caught Balthier's attention. Vaan's pointed glare speared him; too late, he realized he'd been staring. Not only that - Vaan had not been the only one to notice. He had somehow failed to note the silence hanging heavily over the table; only Penelo had continued eating, and that was likely only because she had not once looked up from her bowl.

            He wasn't particularly embarrassed to have been caught; in fact, he fairly relished Vaan's obvious displeasure. But he could hardly explain himself while the subject of his focus yet remained in the room. So he merely shrugged and resumed his own meal.

            Perhaps a minute later, Penelo's chair scraped the floor as she stood. "Please excuse me," she murmured, collecting her dishes and ducking out of the room.

            Silence reigned until they heard her footsteps on the stairs and then the soft sound of a door closing.

            Ashe was the first to break the quiet. " _Really_ , Balthier, _must_ you torment that dear girl?"

            Balthier reared back. "I beg your pardon; what, exactly, have I done?"

            Vaan opened his mouth to speak, but wisely shut it again when Balthier glared him into submission.

            "Earlier she spoke of your foray into the marketplace, and what transpired," Fran said. "Perhaps you ought to make your peace with her."

            Basch, who had been totally unaware of all that had happened that day, said, in a puzzled tone, "What transpired in the marketplace?"

            "Penelo knocked him on his ass," Vaan crowed immediately. "He copped an attitude that Pen took exception to - and after she made us some money, too. Speaking of," - this, directed at Balthier - "give it over."

            With an aggrieved sigh, Balthier fished the sack out of his pocket, tossing it on the table. "That's what's left," he said to the table at large. "I've taken the liberty of acquiring provisions. And for what it's worth, I _did_ apologize."

            Basch snagged the sack, tugging the strings loose to peer inside. His brows arched. "An ample sum for a single day's labor."

            "That's fifteen minutes," Vaan corrected. "Probably she would've made more, but Balthier just couldn't keep his mouth shut."

            "For the love of - _I apologized_."

            "Didn't look to me like she accepted," Vaan said. "Anyway, she'll calm down in a while. She always does. Just needs space. Wouldn't recommend mouthing off again, though."

            "Somehow I managed to draw that conclusion on my own," Balthier muttered caustically.

            Basch ignored their bickering and poured the remaining coins into his palm, counting them out. "And you say this is merely the remainder? You said you had acquired provisions  - were you able to purchase all that we required?"

            "And more, I'd say. We'll have stock enough to last until Archadia, I expect," Balthier replied.

            "Hmm." Basch slipped the coins back into the sack, pulling the strings tight. "It's fortunate, then, that Penelo was able to replenish our coffers. How did she manage that?" He managed to inject only the slightest note of suspicion into his tone, but though Ashe and Fran, who had been privy to the story, rushed to Penelo's defense, Vaan bristled anyway.

            "Penelo's not a thief," he spat. "I offered to pick a couple of pockets, but she prefers earning gil to stealing it. She does _street performances_." He blew out a beleaguered breath. "Even if she _had_ stolen it, what would it matter? Does it only count as theft when you're poor? Because _those two_ -" he jabbed a finger at Balthier and Fran, "- have stolen more than we could in a lifetime, and no one's accusing _them_ of anything."

            "Those who cling to honor are those who've never had to compromise it," Fran said. "Only Humes waste their precious time comparing sins and judging intention by action."

            Vaan peered at Fran uncertainly, unable to ascertain whether she had agreed with him or dissented.

            Balthier was well aware that sky pirates cut a romantic figure and were thus more easily forgiven their crimes - no matter that stealing a priceless artifact was doubtless a weightier offense than the mere pilfering of a bit of gil off an unsuspecting stranger. Of course those who had never had to steal would never understand it as a necessity for some. It was the way of the world; so simple a thing to judge without having experienced the circumstances which lead to the action.

            "Now, now," Ashe said soothingly. "I am certain that Basch did not intend to imply -"

            But Basch waved away her words and said, "No; I have been too much the subject of suspicion myself to be so quick to suspect others. Vaan, my apologies."

            Tight-lipped, Vaan stared hard at Basch. "You need us more than we need you. We can survive anywhere. We've done it before. Remember that." He pushed back from the table abruptly and stalked out of the room.

            Ashe cleared her throat awkwardly, breaking the tense silence that hung like a shroud over the room. "Can any among us truly afford to cast stones? There is a price on all of our heads; if we tear ourselves apart we will fall to the Empire. So let us ask no questions and make no judgments - we've all done regrettable things."

            "Speak for yourself, Princess - I harbor none; regrets are a waste of time," Balthier said lightly.

            Fran's right ear twitched; she alone could hear a lie. The surreptitious look she cast him told him that he would not escape questioning later. And Fran, being a Viera, would always hear more than he told her.

            Ashe, affronted, snapped, "The price on _your_ head is likely higher than mine, Balthier. _Do not tempt me_." She, too, stormed off in a fit of pique.

            Fran placidly sipped her tea. "Close quarters make either good friends or dire enemies. At this moment, I can only speculate which we shall become."

\---

            Two hours later, Balthier realized he still had not relieved himself of the clothing he'd purchased for Penelo. She'd eaten and then taken her leave so quickly he'd hardly had a moment to remember - not that he necessarily would have wanted any of the others in their party present, because that could only have lead to unpleasant inquiries he wanted no part of.  

            But Penelo's room was just down the hall, last door on the left. As everyone had retired to their separate rooms for the evening, he could hand them over in private, with no one - especially not Vaan, the obnoxious lad - any the wiser.

            He rooted through the bag he'd brought back from the shop, finding the garments at the bottom, a bit wrinkled from their careless treatment but ultimately none the worse for the wear. Tucking the folded clothing beneath his arm, he opened his door, which creaked like it hadn't experienced oiled hinges since it was installed - which was more likely than not.

            The hall was deserted, silent. A single lamp glowed on a rickety table at the end of the hall, the only source of light. Beneath his feet floorboards creaked and groaned, the sound only partially muted by the threadbare carpet. For all the protests it made, the rickety old building might well have been moments away from collapsing into dust beneath his feet; it seemed that its fixtures were aging right before his very eyes.

            He knocked once upon Penelo's door, brushing away the flakes of paint that had crumbled away beneath his hand. At last her voice floated through the door, admitting entrance. The door creaked open under the pressure of his hands to reveal Penelo, crouched down by the dingy hearth, toasting her fingers in the light of the fire burning in the grate. Her hair was damp, loose and curling down her back, and she was wrapped in the coverlet that had once graced the narrow bed.

            He closed the door behind him. "Do you frequently invite men into your room while unclothed?"

            Her head jerked toward him, her arms reflexively curled around herself, yanking the coverlet higher. "I thought you were Vaan!" she gasped.

            "Ah, only Vaan is so honored, then."

            She narrowed her eyes at him, mouth drawn into a frown. " _Must_ you be so hateful?" Carefully she climbed to her feet, moving slowly lest the coverlet clenched tightly in her hands reveal anything hidden beneath.

            "Generally speaking, yes," he sighed, and held out the bundled clothing to her. "Occasionally, however, I manage to find it in me to refrain from being hateful."

            To his complete and utter bafflement, she recoiled. "What...why...I said I didn't want it!"

            "Women often say things they don't mean."

            " _I_ don't." She stared at him accusingly. "How did you pay for it?"

            "Don't work yourself into a snit, pet, I purchased it with my own funds. Yours are in Basch's keeping. Now, be a good girl and take it." He gestured again with the cloth, which she yet made no move to take. "What is it, then? Perhaps it's not as fine as you once had, but it's certainly a far sight better than what you've got now." He tossed the bundle to her, and in her shock she caught it instinctively, the fingers of one hand scrunching into a fist around the fabric.

            "Vaan. I'm going to _kill_ him," she gritted out between clenched teeth. "He had no right."

            "Perhaps not, but really, where's the harm?" Balthier shrugged.

            "It's no one's business!" she hissed. "Had I wanted anyone to know, I would have said!"

            "Do you know, I can actually hear it when you're angry. You stop slurring all your words together. You must've been quite wealthy indeed." Though he hadn't meant it to be mocking or insulting, her face flushed a vibrant, furious red. With an incensed exhalation, she flung the garments, hitting him squarely in the face.

            She gestured imperiously to the door with one hand. "Leave. Now."

            He ignored the order, crossing the room to drop into a scarred wooden chair propped against the wall. "It wasn't my intention to insult you. Truly, I only meant to apologize for my behavior earlier. You've single-handedly rescued us from a rather dire financial situation - you deserved a reward, even if you wouldn't take one for yourself."

            "Fine. Thank you for your thoughtful gesture. However, I don't find myself in want of new clothing. Please remove it - and yourself - from my room." Her clipped, clearly enunciated syllables dripped with sarcasm. He really ought to have determined her background before; she held herself like a queen, even though she was clad in nothing but a blanket, with fuzzy blonde ringlets framing her face as her hair dried.

            How had she managed a bath? The proprietor of their inn had flat-out laughed in his face when he'd requested one brought up to his room. He stole a glance to his left; an earthenware pitcher rested near the fire, presumably filled with water. Also near the fire, a makeshift rack upon which her clothing hung - she'd apparently managed to wash those, too, and had hung them near the fire to dry faster.

            "Humor me," he said. " _Why_ do you not wish for new clothes? Haven't you tired of those?" He nodded towards the rack to indicate them.

            Her shoulders slumped; she wilted. Wearily she pressed one hand against her forehead, heaving a sigh. "Why does it matter?" Inelegantly she sat upon the narrow bed, the coverlet slipping down one shoulder. She didn't seem to notice, but Balthier did. Which was the tiniest bit troubling.

            "Ferreting out secrets is what I do. I've a feeling you've got more than a few," he said.

            She darted him a furtive glance, as if trying to glean from his expression what he might know about her. Curious.

            "Come now, this is likely the first selfless gesture I've ever made. If you spurn it, I shall doubtless never make another." He stroked the soft fabric in his hands. "It wasn't terribly dear, if that's what troubles you. And the heat in this part of Ivalice is nigh overwhelming. Surely something lighter - more comfortable - is due."

            "It won't fit." Her mouth was set in a grim line.

            "You've a needle and thread, haven't you? I cannot believe you would not know how to alter them." She'd probably had all sorts of instruction on feminine pursuits drilled into her from early childhood.

            She waved that away dismissively. "It won't _fit_." She sighed. "Someone like you couldn't possibly understand. I'm not that person anymore." Her eyes closed, her head bowed, and she muttered under her breath, "Outcast even among outcasts."

            He understood better than she knew. But he was interested in learning _her_ secrets, not in divulging his own. So he cleared his throat, and asked, "How so?"

            Immediately she lifted her head, skewering him with an annoyed glare. "You're _still_ here?"

            "I rarely follow orders," he said carelessly. "For what it's worth, you ought not concern yourself with whether or not something fits you. Make your own place in the world - take what you want and discard what you do not."

            She snorted. "Fitting words for a pirate."

            "Fitting words for _anyone_. If you measure your worth by another's standards, you doom yourself to disappointment and misery." He tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing her. "You cannot think you are the first to tread this path. This crisis of identity is hardly unique to you."

            She scoffed, dragging the coverlet tighter around herself as if it were a shield. "And _you_ would know."

            "Yes." He stretched out, folding his hands behind his head. "I wasn't _always_ a pirate." He couldn't tell which of them was more surprised by the admission, but he kept his face carefully neutral, devoid of expression. Somehow, her challenging attitude provoked responses he hadn't intended to give. And yet, it was almost...enjoyable. She wasn't quite the insufferable little waif he'd imagined her to be.

            She schooled her features into an expression of nonchalance. "I really am not interested in your history," she said, turning away. "I already know all that I care to. I've known your type before; I was..."

            "Was what?" he prompted, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. Interesting - she, too, was given to saying more than she wished while in his company.

            "Nothing." She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Won't you just go?"

            "Not just yet, I think. You owe me a secret."

             "I _beg_ your pardon," she snapped.

            "Oh, come now. It's a simple enough concept - I divulged something about myself; the least you can do is return the favor." At her skeptical glance, he continued, "All right. You wish me to leave you in peace - tell me your secret and I shall."

            She made an irritated sound in the back of her throat and dragged the fingers of one hand through her tangled hair. "It doesn't even matter anymore," she muttered. "I know your type because I was engaged to one of them."

            "Engaged? To be _married_?"

            "Is there _another_ sort of engaged?" she returned waspishly.

            "You're rather young for that."

            "My parents arranged it when I was a child. Had it not fallen through with the breakout of the war, I would have been married this year." She shook her head. "No nobleman wants an impoverished orphan for a daughter-in-law, you know. They'll sacrifice their sons at the altar of matrimony for a fortune in dowry, but not otherwise."

            That, well he knew, was all too true. "Was your intended objectionable to you?" he asked.

            She shrugged. "I never met him."

            "Then how can you possibly conclude we're of the same type?"

           "You're _all_ of the same type! Arrogant, condescending, egotistical." She leapt to her feet, pacing the worn carpet. "My parents made me write a letter a week to him. He _never_ responded. Not once! The most I ever received was a missive from his father with a list of skills that I ought to be instructed in." A raw sound of rage escaped her. "He didn't have to _ignore_ me! I liked it no better than he did!"

            Ah, so she had been treated poorly by the upper classes.  He had known that the nobility had never been particularly accepting of commoners - especially those they viewed as attempting to infiltrate their illustrious ranks, sullying their exalted bloodlines through marriage and children. He had cast off his heritage and escaped the expectations thrust upon him, but she had been forced to walk the line between two worlds, belonging truly in neither. Even now, she belonged nowhere, having cast off the country of her birth to accompany her only friend on what might very well be a suicide mission.

            Unexpectedly, he felt a stirring of sympathy. He had never given overmuch thought into other's situations, but it struck him suddenly that she was so young to have to bear the weight of all that she had experienced. That she yet endured was nothing short of miraculous, given her circumstances. Even Ashe, the formidable dispossessed princess, had not witnessed her father's death, had not suffered hunger or homelessness. No wonder Vaan was so fiercely defensive of her - Penelo had suffered enough, had conquered adversity that would have felled a lesser person.

            "Well?" she snapped finally. "Hadn't you better scold me for reaching above my station?"

            She was waiting for him to revert to type, he realized, because he had never failed to prove himself all that she had accused him of - arrogant, condescending, egotistical. 

            "No. I think perhaps your intended reached above his." Though he _was_ attempting to win her favor, he found that he could not quite convince himself that the words were empty flattery.

            She whirled on him with a bewildered expression, trod on the edge of the coverlet, and promptly lost her balance. Instinctively, he reached out, catching her before she toppled to the floor. The coverlet gaped open, exposing the upper swells of her breasts and the shadowy hollow between. Balthier managed to pull his gaze away, but not before Penelo gasped and jerked herself out of his arms, fumbling to readjust the coverlet.

            "I-I think you'd better go now," she mumbled, staring at the floor.

            "Yes." He cleared his throat to disguise the slight catch in his voice. "That would probably be wise." For the gods' sake, he oughtn't to have been affected at all! "Until tomorrow, then." And he turned towards the door.

            "Oh, wait!" Carefully she sank down to the floor to retrieve the clothing that had fallen from his lap when he'd lunged to catch her. "Take this with you."

            He paused, considering. "No," he said finally. "Despite what you might believe, it _does_ fit you."


	4. Chapter 4

Balthier was not so foolish as to have expected Penelo's attitude towards him to have changed substantially overnight, but he had at least hoped that she might have accepted his gift. But not only was she still wearing her old clothing, she didn't so much as glance up when he entered the common room the next morning. He ruthlessly tamped down the taunt he might've otherwise employed - such behavior would hardly endear him to her, after all.

            Instead he took a seat at the table and reached for a cup, subtly using a corner of his shirt to clear out the dusty interior before he pushed it across the table towards Penelo.

            "Would you mind?" He nodded to indicate the tarnished silver teapot sitting near her elbow.

            He had expected her to refuse, but to his surprise she accepted the cup. There was a fluid sort of grace in her movements; she lifted the pot in her left hand, delicately placed her right index finger upon the lid to hold it in place, tipped the pot to the perfect angle and filled the cup, spilling nary a drop. She replaced the teapot on the table gently so that it made not a sound.

            "Oh."

            They both turned to see Ashe standing in the doorway, her brows raised in surprise, the fingers of one hand covering her mouth. Penelo blanched, turned away quickly, and slid the cup back across the table towards Balthier with a bit too much force - tea sloshed over the side, spreading quickly across the scratched surface of the wooden tabletop.

            "We'd met before, hadn't we?" Ashe inquired. "I mean to say...at the palace, in better days."

            Penelo shrugged noncommittally and shot Balthier an accusatory look, as if he were responsible for Ashe's sudden recollection.

            But Ashe persisted, taking a seat at the table. "I remember - you offered to pour for me. I had always hated it; I never could do it right." She grasped the teapot, attempting to replicate the effortless poise Penelo had managed. As if on instinct, Penelo reached out to reposition Ashe's fingers on the lid, then her elbow, gently tilting it to the proper angle. Despite the assistance, a few drops escaped to splatter on the table.

            Ashe sighed. "You see? Hopeless." She set the teapot down, and the lid clattered against the pot. "How did you come to be here? Your family -"

            "Dead," Penelo interrupted firmly. "I'm not any different than I was yesterday. I'm an orphan; I lived in the streets, or in the alleys of Lowtown, with the other children."

            "But you weren't always -"

            "Of course not. But neither were the rest of the children - they had families once, and homes. What makes me any different?" Though the rebuke was gentle, Ashe flushed with embarrassment.

            Balthier tipped his cup toward Penelo in a silent salute. Ashe had been on amiable terms with Penelo before, but had never expressed any interest in her history before now - and Penelo had not cared for the implication that her past was only worth interest once it became clear that she had come from a moneyed background.

            Weakly, Ashe said, "It is just that you are so different from how you were - I truly didn't recognize you until now." She curled her hands around the teacup. "There weren't many among the ladies who visited the palace that I liked...but you, I did."

            Ashe was staring awkwardly down into her cup, and so she did not bear witness to the sudden tension that snapped Penelo's shoulders straight, the clench of her jaw. Well-meaning though the princess might be, she was merely serving to make Penelo uncomfortable.

            Well, perhaps he might endear himself to the contrary chit by interceding on her behalf. He cleared his throat and said, "I don't believe Penelo wishes to continue this conversation."

            Ashe's color deepened; she sheepishly ducked her head. "Of course," she mumbled. "Of course, I'm sorry. How insensitive of me."

            Penelo flashed him a look that was a curious blend of confusion and gratefulness. As if, while she appreciated his assistance, she couldn't imagine why he'd gone to the trouble. Still, confused gratefulness was better than her antipathy, and at this point he would do well to take what he could get.

            The tense silence that followed was broken shortly thereafter when Basch came down the stairs, Fran close behind.

            "We leave for Reddas' home within the hour," Basch announced. "We ought not tarry longer than we must."

            "I'll fetch Vaan," Penelo said, in a vaguely menacing tone, and Balthier knew that she would be upbraiding Vaan in private for sharing details of her life with him. He might have managed to dredge up a bit of sympathy for the unfortunate boy - if only he wasn't so incredibly obnoxious.

            "Let's reconvene in ten minutes," Basch said as Penelo quit the room. "Gather your belongings - we'll not be returning."

            "Thank the gods," Balthier muttered beneath his breath. It would be a cold day in hell before he would ever willingly set foot in this misbegotten travesty of an inn again - in fact, in _any_ inn which did not offer its patrons hot meals, hot baths, and clean bed linens.

            He and Ashe mounted the stairs to retrieve their belongings. On the way to his room, he passed Vaan's, and didn't even bother to smother the grin that rose at the muffled sound of Penelo's furious voice from within.

\--

            Vaan slunk alongside Balthier on their way to Reddas' abode, slanting him sulky looks every so often, which Balthier did his level best to ignore. With the way Penelo was studiously avoiding so much as glancing in Vaan's direction coupled with the stubborn tilt of her chin, he supposed she and Vaan would be on the outs for a while at least.

            All the more convenient for him - he wouldn't have to worry about Vaan getting in his way; Penelo had seen to that for him. Not that he couldn't have handled the boy himself, but it would be that much more satisfying now that Vaan was being so thoroughly shunned by his erstwhile friend.

            Reddas' home was at the far end of town, tucked up against the seawall which protected the portside city from floods and storms. The towering manor house, an odd combination of architectural styles, each a legacy from a previous owner, rose high above the shops and other, more modest homes, like a stalwart guardian watching over the town. A fitting residence, as Reddas, a former Judge Magister, had broken from Archadia after the fall of Nabudis, devastated by the destruction he had helped to bring about. He had abandoned his position and fled instead to Balfonheim, setting himself up as a patron to sky pirates and working tirelessly behind the scenes to cripple the Archadian Empire.

            Ashe had been less than pleased when she had learned that they intended to solicit the assistance of the man whose actions had driven her kingdom into upheaval and made of her a widow. It was only at the urging of her uncle, Marquis Ondore, that she had acquiesced - though she had made clear her reticence to do so.

            Balthier didn't particularly blame her for her aversion - there was no love lost between himself and Reddas. They had both broken with the Empire, but Balthier had deserted years before Reddas had done. It had been something of a surprise to learn of Reddas' defection some years after his own, considering he had urged Reddas to accompany him on his own escape some four years prior. Then, Reddas had been a staunch supporter of Archadia - he had sounded the alarm as Balthier had stolen the _Strahl_ , setting the Imperial Army hot on his heels. It was only by the skin of his teeth - and speed of the stolen prototype airship - that Balthier had escaped with his life.

            But since then they had both taken new names, lived new lives - and provided that Reddas would lend his assistance and his men had repaired the _Strahl_ as the Marquis had promised would be done, Balthier would let the past lie where it belonged.

            As they approached the stately manor house, Balthier was gratified to see its windows glowed with light - clearly it was at last occupied. Even as they climbed the steps, the massive wooden doors were flung open to admit them.

            "Come in, come in," said the matronly woman who had opened the doors. "I'm called Rista; I've served Reddas' interests for nigh on two years now. Don't linger in the streets; this city is protected, but the Empire's got eyes and ears everywhere. Best to conduct business behind closed doors."

            She ushered them inside, snapping the doors closed behind them, and lead them deeper into the house, through a maze of corridors, up two flights of stairs, and finally into a large drawing room.

            "Well! No need to ask who _you_ are," Rista said, stopping before Ashe, who had taken a seat on an elegant, low-backed sofa. "You've the look of your father about you, in his younger days. And your mother, of course, bless her, but certainly there's more of your father in you." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps that's why Reddas has his reservations."

            "Reservations!" Ashe gasped, indignant. She shot to her feet, her hands curling into fists at her sides. " _Reservations_ , after the damage he's done!"

            "There it is," Rista mused. "I didn't say he wouldn't help you, child, so do calm yourself. He merely has doubts over whether you will make a good queen."

            "You dare! It is my birthright, my heritage! My father's legacy -"

            "Your father was weak-willed and easily lead astray," Rista snapped. "You are queen of nothing, princess of nothing, merely an exile without proof of your claim. We have seen the damage wrought by fools grasping for power. Do you seek power for power's sake, you will wreak the same destruction and meet the same end. Think you that Reddas will champion your cause, knowing the weakness of your heart and the lust for power in your blood, having lived these last years in full regret over his last such mistake?" She thrust out her hand, pointing at the sofa that Ashe had vacated. " _Sit down,_ Ashelia Dalmasca, and we will determine whether or not you deserve to take up the mantle of queen. Only after I am satisfied will I recommend you to Reddas."

            Though Ashe followed the command and once more took her seat, still she defended herself against Rista's accusations. "It is not for you to decide. I am the last of my line, the last living descendant of the Dynast-King. The shards of the Sun Cryst resonate with my blood alone." 

            "Oh? And have you such a shard, then?" The arch question rattled Ashe yet further.

            Through clenched teeth, she gritted out, "You know I have not."

            Penelo, seated near Ashe, gently laid her hand on Ashe's arm. "Ashe. We need her help," she said softly, in a coaxing tone.

            For a moment, Ashe stared at Penelo, uncomprehending. Then, finally, she took a deep breath, exhaled, and composed herself. "Yes," she said on a gusty sigh. Another deep breath, and she released the last of her tension. "Forgive me. I fear I am unused to having my motives questioned."

            "More's the pity," Rista said. "I find those who expect unquestioning obedience often are those least deserving of it. You will not receive such a thing from Reddas, so it is best that you do not expect it." She considered Ashe for a moment and said, finally, "That you have managed to rein in your temper says much. Your traveling companions are good for you, I think." This, with a wink cast at Penelo.

            Ashe ducked her head. "I have been much honored by their loyalty. Though I can hardly credit it, nor have I any right to expect it, I am certain that I would never have made it here without their accompaniment."

            "Tell me - should we render you aid, and should you reclaim your kingdom, could you resist the temptation the shards offer?" Rista asked. "An honest answer, if you please, princess."

            Ashe hesitated. "I...I do not know. That is to say...I wish for the shards, but I also fear them. As much as they promise security, they also bring death and destruction. I do not believe I know of anyone that ought hold such power, including myself. I want to believe I could be noble, but I do not _know_."

            At last, Rista smiled in approval. "A fine answer," she said. "Doubts, princess, are precisely what you should have. Keep that fear in your heart, and remember well the lessons learned by those who have gone before you." From a pouch at her waist, she plucked a vellum envelope and offered it to Ashe. "Here, a letter from Reddas. He gives you all welcome and regrets that he is not here to meet you - however, you may stay here until the _Strahl's_ repairs have been completed and you may meet with him in Archades. I will send word to him that you will join him then." She stood, brushing at her wrinkled skirts. "Please avail yourselves of whatever chambers you wish; the rooms on this floor have all been readied. Should you require anything, simply ring for assistance." With that, she swept out of the room, leaving them to their own devices.

            "Well? What does it say?" Vaan asked, gesturing to the envelope Ashe held in her hands.

            Carefully she peeled away the seal, unfolding the paper within. "He says that receipt of this letter indicates Rista's blessing in his absence, and he will aid us. We are to convene with him in Archades; he will leave further instructions to be received at the Aerodrome there under the name 'Amalia.'" Here, she hesitated. "He says the Dusk Shard is held in Draklor Laboratories, and we go to reclaim it."

            "Draklor," Basch sneered. "I have heard of it - no good comes of that facility. It's said to be where Archadia's weapons are manufactured."

            "Worse than that, I'm afraid," Balthier said. "Draklor is owned and run by Dr. Cid - that is, Cidolfus Bunansa - and he's quite mad. The place is crawling with guards at all hours; recovering that shard will be no easy task."

            "Cidolfus Bunansa?" Penelo whispered.

            "You've heard of him, then?" Balthier asked.

            She swallowed hard. "Larsa said something in Bhujerba...about manufacted nethicite," she said.

            "That's certainly got Cidolfus' mark on it," Balthier acknowledged. "Given enough time, he'll turn the shard into a weapon for Archadia."

            "At all costs, we cannot allow that," Basch said, rising to his feet. "Take this time to rest while we are able - but do not settle in, for we leave at the earliest opportunity."

\---

            As the others retreated down the hall in search of rooms, Fran caught at Balthier's sleeve to stay him.

            "You were within Penelo's room last night," she said in a neutral tone - not accusatory, merely stating fact.

            He shrugged. "We had things to discuss."

            Face impassive, Fran stared at him with that assessing look he'd come to know only too well. "That one has secrets. Are you prepared for what you will find, should you pursue them?"

            Balthier's brows arched in surprise. "Has she confided in you, then?"

            A slow shake of her head. "She guards herself well. Careful with her words, lest she betray herself."

            "But you know something, don't you?" he inquired. "Something I do not. Her genteel birth -"

            "That much was clear from the first," Fran sniffed in annoyance. "You would have seen it had you observed rather than antagonized."

            The subtle rebuke irked him. Though they were partners, Fran was more than fifty years his senior and, as a viera, her senses were more finely honed than his. Since they had met six years ago, she had been his mentor, constantly urging him to sharpen his skills, though as a hume, he could never hope to match hers.

            "What, then? Tell me."

            "It is not for me to say. Simply because I know a thing does not give me the right to speak of it, else I'd have loosed yours long ago." Her face softened as she turned to look down the corridor towards the room Penelo had chosen. "She reminds me of you."

            Taken aback, Balthier croaked, " _What_?"

            "Not so much you _now_ , of course. But when first we met, you were the same. Angry. Proud. Stubborn. Desperately running from the past, fearing always that it will find you regardless." She met his eyes. "Survivors and fighters, both of you. She will make an excellent pirate someday, just as you have. Should we succeed, you might considering making a protégé of her."

            "Why should I wish to do that?" he asked. Truly, Fran was in a strange state today. She was rarely so chatty, and only in situations that she considered to be of utmost importance. Unfortunately, these situations rarely aligned with what Balthier considered of utmost importance. "The _Strahl_ has only permanent room enough for two, and we've no need for a third partner."

            Again, that chiding tone, as though he'd failed to perceive something she herself found painfully obvious. "She is unpracticed, but the talent is there. You are blind to many things, but I cannot believe that you do not see her potential."

            Well, he hadn't - until yesterday, when she'd gotten the drop on him embarrassingly easily. That alone had tilted his world on its axis, forcing him to seriously reevaluate his opinion of her. She was fast, agile, and cunning. The girl probably _would_ make a decent pirate.

            "And the two of you would suit, I think," Fran continued.

            "Certainly we would _not_ ," he responded, affronted. And then hesitated - "What do you mean, the _two_ of us?"

            "With her, I would be unnecessary."

            "You cannot think that I would rather _her_ company than yours." The very idea was laughable. But then, Fran said nothing she didn't mean, though what she did choose to say was often cryptic at best. "We have traveled together too many years for anyone to usurp your position," he said. "Least of all an orphaned street urchin harboring more secrets than she ought."

            Fran's cool gaze raked over him, and he sensed that he had somehow disappointed her. To his relief, she let the matter drop. Instead she reiterated her previous warning. "Should you go seeking out her secrets," she said at last, "you may not be pleased with what you uncover. Those that seek will inevitably find - though not necessarily what they wished. You cannot unlearn a thing, Balthier. Choose your course wisely."

\---

            Reddas' home was worlds away a more comfortable residence than the inn they had recently vacated. The rugs carpeting the lovingly-waxed wooden floors of Penelo's room were plush beneath her feet, the linens pristine. Not even motes of dust dared drift through the air to sully the perfectly polished grandeur.

            It was not so fine as the room that had belonged to her in her family's home - her home had had running water throughout, and Reddas' home seemed to have only the newest additions built with plumbing - but it was by far the finest room she had been within in years, no matter that it would be hers for only a day, perhaps two on the outside. The room opened into a spacious sitting area, a sofa and chairs gathered around a low table before the hearth. The walls were lined with bookshelves; the bookshelves with books, wrapping around the room on three sides, with space permitting only the door and the large picture window, beneath which a cushioned chaise lounge rested. The bed was large and inviting, and she seriously considered climbing into it to while away the hours in sleep - but there was a large copper tub obscured by a wooden screen in the corner, and she had been too long without a proper bath to resist its siren song.

            A bell pull beside the bed quickly summoned forth a maid, who was only too pleased to be of assistance. In less than twenty minutes, the tub was full, the soothing scent of jasmine wafting through the air on whorls of steam. Another maid brought forth a tray of toiletries and a bundle of thick, white linen towels, setting them near the edge of the tub, leaving Penelo with instructions to ring when she was through so that the tub could be removed.

            Alone at last, she hastened to shed her clothing, draping the discarded items over the screen. They ought to be laundered properly, but she could not risk leaving herself without wearable clothing should she have to be ready in a hurry. Well...she supposed she still had the clothing Balthier had purchased yesterday. In a moment of weakness, she had grabbed up the garments and stuffed them in her bag instead of leaving them behind as she rightly should have. She supposed she might take them out to look at from time to time, to feel the softness of the fabric beneath her fingers and let it draw out the pleasant memories of a happier time...but she could never wear it. It simply wouldn't be possible. Pretty they might be; suitable they were not.

            She tested the temperature of the water with her toes, and, finding it agreeable, scrambled into the tub for a long and leisurely soak. Too long since she'd been able to soak in perfectly heated water, too long since she'd had sweetly scented soaps and bath salts. Resting her head against the rim of the tub, she closed her eyes and let the warmth seep into her, drifting tranquilly, at peace for the first time in recent memory.

\---

            Not fifteen minutes had passed since Balthier had seen a bevy of maids tromping down the hallway to Penelo's room, carrying with them buckets of steaming water. It didn't require genius to determine their purpose, and now Balthier was left wrestling with himself over his next course of action. How far would be too far to push her? That was the danger - he had always managed to remain several steps ahead of his opponents, often playing a different game entirely than they had imagined. It was how he had made a name for himself, what he had built his reputation upon, how he had amassed a respectable fortune in pirated goods and gil.

            But Penelo defied such foresight, thwarted his expectations at every turn. It was a risky game he was playing - she might not know the rules, but he suspected that, as pertained to her, he might have only a tenuous handle on them himself.

            And yet, this lull in the storm before their voyage into Archades might well be his only such opportunity for some time. Would he be more fool to take this chance as it presented itself, or to let it pass him by, never knowing if another might come his way?

            But then, he _was_ a pirate - and nothing ventured, nothing gained. He had undertaken riskier ventures before and lived to tell the tale.

            The halls were deserted, each member of their party hoarding their own small slice of peace whilst they could.

            Her room was just there, at the end of the hall - she had chosen it after everyone else, picking one set apart, away from the others. Probably because she relished her privacy - privacy he was moments away from usurping.

            And not for nothing was he a thief - the soft leather of his boots were silent as he walked the immaculately waxed wooden floors of the hallway, no echo to mark his passage. The brass doorknob was cool and solid in his hand; it twisted easily. The hinges were well-oiled; the door swept open with nary a betraying creak, and slipped silently shut behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

The sultry scent of jasmine assailed his senses, permeating the room. Though he had made no sound upon entry, he heard the slosh of water behind the screen in the corner, the sudden deep silence. She was listening intently - somehow she had known someone had entered.

            Sure enough, within moments, she called from behind the screen, "I know someone's there. I felt the draft from the door. Who is it?"

            Ah, she was perceptive enough even to read the wind. He found himself unwillingly impressed - it had taken him years to acquire the senses she employed so effortlessly.

            "You really ought to lock your doors, pet," he found himself saying.

            A sharp gasp, a low, furious sound from deep in her throat. "There's no lock on the door - and forgive me for assuming you wouldn't be so crass as to invade my privacy a second time. Perhaps I ought to have wedged a chair beneath the handle!"

            "Perhaps you ought to have, indeed. Certainly it would have made my entry more difficult, though not impossible." He moved slowly across the room, letting the soles of his boots scrape across the floor, allowing her to hear his advance. The screen concealing the tub was hinged in four places, sectioning off the area for a bit of added privacy. Those hinges, where the screen bent to curve around the tub, left four thin slivers of space between where one panel ended and the next began. He had not been above spying at keyholes in the past - he feared those slits between the panels might prove more temptation than he was equipped to resist. And really, were she not so damned secretive, he would not be so damned curious.

            Water splashed noisily on the floor; she hissed in outrage, "Don't you dare come any closer!"

            "No need for a fit, dove, I haven't come to watch you bathing." He hadn't, in fact - but he was hardly one to waste such a prime opportunity when it arose. He paused only a foot or so away from the screen, and proved himself a liar. But she had curled in on herself protectively, crossing one arm over her breasts to shield herself from view.

            "Lecherous bastard!" she cried, and with her free hand she struck the water, sending a wave of it soaring through the air, to splash against the screen. He chuckled, amused.

            "I've been called worse, I suppose," he said. "As it happens, I only came for this." He reached up and tugged her discarded clothing off  the screen.

            An appalled gasp. "What are you _doing_? I need those!" There was a flurry of activity from behind the screen.

            "You _really_ don't. They're bound for the scrap heap - I'm merely hastening the process."

             "You have no right!" she snapped. Water crested and rolled in the tub, then there was the sound of feet hitting the wooden floor, drops of water falling like rain. "Balthier, I _need_ my clothes!"

            "You've got new - better and infinitely cleaner." He retreated several paces, lest she jump at him from behind the screen. Her discarded satchel lay on the table near the door - a bit fuller than he remembered, suggesting she'd packed away the garments he'd purchased after all. "You'll not receive these old things, but I'll retrieve the new ones for you." He crossed the floor towards the table, snatching up her satchel, abandoning her old clothing in favor of it.

            "No!" She skidded out from behind the screen, one hand thrust out to stop him, the other clutching a fluffy white towel tightly around her. Her breath came in short, sharp pants, as though she could not draw enough air. Her eyes were wide, horrified. "Please, no. Just give it to me." She held out her hand for the satchel.

            His eyes narrowed suspiciously. For a moment neither moved, and he would swear Penelo did not even breathe - her eyes were focused only on the bag in his hands, as if it were the only thing in the world.

            "What will I find in here, Penelo?" he asked. "More secrets? More answers?" He twisted the tog that kept it bound, opening the leather flap. At the top, the scarlet outfit had been shoved in hastily, concealing anything beneath, but Penelo jerked as though he'd struck her.

            "Please," she whispered. "It's nothing - it has value only to me. It's of no interest to anyone else."

            She looked so pitiful, so fearful, that he was almost moved to relinquish it to her. Almost - but not quite. He had never been so noble.

            "I'll make you a deal," he said. "You can tell me what you've got in here, or I will discover it for myself."

            With an unintelligible cry of rage, she lunged for the satchel. But she was hobbled by the fact that she had the use of only one hand - the other still gripped the edges of the towel tightly around her - and she was a good deal smaller than he. It was a simple feat to keep the satchel raised high above his head and loop his free arm around her waist, drawing her up tight against his chest. Desperately she shoved at his chest with one hand, twisting futilely for escape.

            "Ah ah," he chided. "Consider this lesson number one: never let yourself be provoked into a physical confrontation that you're bound to lose." Just to rile her further, he glanced down to where her breasts pressed against his chest, the towel threatening to give way completely.

            She gasped, stilled, and breathed in a low voice, "You are _foul_." But vivid color washed up her throat into her face, burning brightly.

            "Oh, please - had I truly wished to embarrass you, I'd have grabbed for the towel instead." He considered her furious face for a moment, then said  in a conversational tone, "Did you know you have freckles across the bridge of your nose? I hadn't noticed before."

            "If you don't let me go, I will scream," she hissed. "I'll bring the entire household down upon your head."

            He shrugged - a neat trick, considering both of his arms were currently engaged. "Then I'll dump out the contents of the bag, and you may explain its contents to all of us." It was a risk he was taking, but he was willing to bet whatever she had secreted away in her bag wasn't intended to be kept from him alone. He knew he'd struck gold when the color drained from her face, her pupils narrowing to pinpoints. But her irises - they were such a bright, vivid blue, almost electric. Again, he experienced that subtle shock of familiarity, the fragments of a memory he could not quite place.

            Her eyes closed; she took a shuddering breath. "What do you want from me?" she whispered.

            "Whatever secret you're hiding." He almost felt guilty for intimidating her when her lips pursed and her chin trembled. "Come, pet. Unless I miss my guess, you've never put a toe out of line in your life, and certainly never to the point where _I_ would be in any position to judge your actions. Besides which, you don't care what I think about you anyway - so where's the harm?"

            "My private affairs are none of your business," she snapped, stomping on his foot - which accomplished precisely nothing except to punctuate her anger.

            "At this moment they are," he replied. "Secrets are my trade, dear girl, and you're out of options. So what is it to be?"

            She hesitated - she had to know that she had been out-maneuvered, though he couldn't fault her for her valiant effort. Finally, she gritted out - "I want my clothing first."

            He considered that a moment, then decided there was no harm in it - and a small concession might blunt the sharp edge of her fury. "Your bag remains in my possession. You may take those -" he nodded to the wadded up ball of clothing he'd left on the table "- and dress behind the screen. And afterwards, I shall expect your cooperation. Are we agreed?"

            She gave a tight little nod, and by degrees he released her, just in case she had any further rebellions planned. But she sprang away from him, scuttling backwards, fingers clenching the towel. Slowly, watching him as though he were liable to pounce on her at the earliest opportunity, she edged towards the table, and finally snatched up the bundle of clothing and retreated behind the screen.

            The towel she flung over the screen to dry, and then there was the rustling of clothing as she fumbled to dress as quickly as she could. While she was otherwise occupied, he stashed the satchel behind a pillow on the sofa, lest she think to make another play for it, then dropped onto the sofa and stretched out his legs, resting his boots on the polished surface of the low table.

            Minutes later, she emerged fully clothed - but so pale she looked like a washed out photograph. She took several shallow, gasping breaths, and her fingers trembled as she smoothed her hair over her shoulder, a nervous gesture that only served to prick his conscience further. Gods, he hadn't known he'd even still possessed one.

            With one hand he gestured to the chair opposite him. "Do make yourself comfortable," he said.

            A sharp nod; she moved on stiff legs, collapsing into the chair as if her legs would no longer support her. Then all at once, she spoke in a harsh whisper. "I want your word that you won't speak of this to anyone."

            "Done."

            Her brows drew together at his ready agreement, as though she had expected him to laugh off her request. "Not to _anyone_ ," she clarified. "Not even to Fran."

            He shrugged. "Contrary to what you might believe, I _do_ possess bits of principle here and there. If I tell you that I will not share your secrets, you may believe it."

            "Why?" she asked. "Why should I trust your word? You're hardly the honorable sort, Balthier."

            "No," he acknowledged. "But you'll tell me regardless, as we agreed. Therefore lying would serve no purpose - I've no need to compel your cooperation further. I merely wished to set your mind at ease; your secrets will not be shared by me."

            Slowly she nodded, as if his logic, while baffling, made sense enough to her. But she did not speak - instead she caught her lower lip between her teeth, knitting her fingers together.

            "We had a deal, darling," he reminded her.

            She sighed, clearly vacillating. Then she pulled her legs up into the chair, bent them so she could loop her arms around them and rested her chin atop her knees, as if to make herself as small as possible. Finally, she spoke, in a low voice: "In Rabanastre, I danced."

            He huffed, "Well, of course. I had known as much -"

            "No," she interrupted. "I _danced_." She said it as though the emphasis should carry some sort of import, like he should simply understand -

            At once, he did. His feet slid off the table, hitting the floor with a pronounced _thud_. Somehow, he - once so remarkably proficient at masking his thoughts - could not keep the expression of surprise off of his face.

            His breath escaped on a rush; he managed to ask, " _You_?"

            She shrugged. "Well, they'd hardly have been lining up to see _Vaan_ , now, would they?"

            "Why?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "How?"

            She brushed her bangs away from her face with one hand, averting her eyes, uncomfortable with his sudden intent gaze. "We were fine for a while - the street children, I mean - with what gil we could bring in with odd jobs and street performances. But then the Empire levied such heavy taxes on Rabanastrans to fund their war that even that paltry bit of money dried up. There weren't any jobs; people weren't as willing to part with their gil for a show. At least, not _that_ kind of show," she said, with a self-deprecating flutter of laughter. "After a few unsuccessful street performances, a man approached me. Gave me his card, said he wanted me to come work at his club. I wasn't desperate - I had too much pride for _that_. But holding on to pride is so hard, when you can hear the little ones - children of four, five, and newly orphaned - crying because they haven't had anything to eat in days. Pride doesn't fill an empty stomach. So, eventually, yes, I sought him out and took his offer."

            "The money was that good, then?"

            She'd read some judgment into his inflection that he hadn't intended, for she shot him a vicious glare. "I did what I had to do to survive, to help the other children. I don't regret it. But I know that there are those who wouldn't understand, who would think less of me for it."

            He held up his hands; a gesture of placation. "Easy, I meant no offense. I confess, it's not a situation in which I have ever found myself. I'm merely curious."

            She eyed him skeptically for a moment, as if attempting to ascertain the veracity of his words. But whatever she saw in his face must have reassured her, and she settled back in her chair as though mollified.

            "Does Vaan know?" he asked.

            "No, and you gave me your word you wouldn't tell _anyone_ ," she said in a rush.

            He nodded his assent. "I'll not betray your confidence," he said. "But why would you keep it from him?"

            "He wouldn't understand," she said. "It would hurt his pride to know how I really supported us in those days." She rested her cheek upon her knees with a sigh. "It wasn't so bad, really. After a while, I could just ignore the patrons. Just dance and sort of float away. Escape. Pretend I was somewhere else."

            An appalling thought rose in his mind. With some effort, he kept his expression bland. "How many years do you have? Seventeen? Eighteen?"

            "Seventeen," she said. "Eighteen shortly, not that it matters."

            "Of course it _matters_ ," he snapped. "For the gods' sake, you're still a child. That couldn't have been _legal_."

            For a moment, she was baffled. "Oh, the dancing, you mean. Well, not entirely, no. _That_ sort of entertainment usually wants a few more years than I had, then." Lazily she uncurled one arm, idly tracing a pattern on the arm of the chair. "But then, who would care? Certainly not the Empire."

            _Balthier_ cared. He'd been to more than a few of those clubs in his time, and it turned his stomach to think that the girls employed there might not have been entirely willing participants - just innocent young girls, with no other options, lured into the profession by unscrupulous club owners.

            "It really wasn't so bad," she said again, as if she was trying to convince herself as well as him. "Really, it was good money for a few hours of work. And I didn't have to do it so very often - I was rather popular, so the owner was always happy to let me work only when I wanted. The infrequent performances made me a rarity, so he could always be sure his club would be packed when I worked. He did all he could to protect the girls that worked there from unruly patrons. And he was especially careful with me, so I never had to worry about that."

            "He doesn't get _thanks_ for performing as expected." The words came out in an unwitting snarl; her defense of the club owner had grated upon his raw nerves. "It was his _duty_ to protect you."

            Her smile was sardonic, mocking. "You're the only one to see it that way, I'm afraid. All of the other girls had terrible stories about other clubs they'd worked at. At least the owner at my club had _some_ manner of honor. He never let anyone see my face. I never had to worry about being recognized elsewhere."

            An eerie sense of foreboding washed over him. The hair at the back of his neck prickled. That familiarity, that faint sense of recognition he'd experienced - it couldn't be. Fate could not be so cruel. "How is that possible?" he asked, already wishing he had not, dreading the answer. Because he suddenly, desperately, wanted _not_ to know what she was almost certain to tell him.

            For a moment she merely stared at him, searching his horrified face, evaluating her possible responses. The silence dragged out, weighing on him heavily. Finally, she rose gracefully from the chair, trailing her fingers along the back as she walked around it towards the door.

            "My bag, please," she said in an inscrutable voice as she passed him. "I've fulfilled my end."

            She held out her hand for it, and, after a moment of hesitation, he dug out her satchel from behind the pillow and passed it to her.

            For a moment he was almost relieved that she had put an end to the conversation, that she had not deigned to enlighten him. If she did not tell him, he could pretend that he didn't already know. Because, in this case, the tiniest shred of doubt was better than crushing certainty.

            But she paused near the threshold to search through her bag, and his heart thudded in his chest. A long moment passed in tense silence - it might as well have been an eternity. Finally, she turned her head to glance at him over her shoulder.

            "Do you know, Balthier, that I don't particularly care for being manipulated?" she asked in a deceptively light tone. "I don't care to think of myself as a cruel sort of person. But neither am I inclined to turn the other cheek. In the future, I'm sure you will remember that."

            Her blue, blue eyes speared him. Eyes that had seemed so familiar before, eyes he now knew he _had_ seen before - framed by the glittering gold mask she held aloft in her hand. The mask that had disguised her features from her throngs of male admirers - from _him_.

            He swallowed heavily, sinking back in his chair. "I don't suppose -"

            Her mocking trill of laughter interrupted his hesitant question. "Are you wondering if I remember you, Balthier?" she asked blithely.

            And he said nothing. What could he say? She might only be hazarding a guess; he would be ten kinds of a fool to confirm what might only be a vague suspicion.

            She continued her leisurely path toward the doorway. "I do," she said finally. "I do remember you. You came _three_ times. I wonder what I should think about that."

            And she stepped through the doorway and disappeared, her soft boots yielding not so much as a single sound on the floor to mark her exit.

 

\---

 

            Balthier had never been more conflicted in his life. To one end, he had not - at least to his knowledge at the time - done anything wrong. To the other, he had participated in the degradation of a vulnerable young woman. _Four_ times. She'd been wrong, there. Probably she hadn't seen him the first time, lingering in the shadows at the rear of the room, the hazy cigar smoke permeating the air and obscuring him further still.

            He had been so entranced, all of his subsequent visits had found him front and center. Of course she couldn't fail to notice him there. So she had recognized him, but he had not recognized her - but then, her hair had been considerably longer, she'd had on that damned gilded mask, and she'd been wearing less clothing. _Significantly_ less. By the gods, what a tangle.

            He scrubbed his hands over his face, taking a harsh breath. Blast it all - why had she not told him weeks ago? No, strike that - why had he been fool enough to steal her secrets from her? He could have happily lived the remainder of his life not knowing that _Penelo_ was the mysterious and much sought after dancer half the population of Ivalice had coveted.

            Of course, he had done his fair share of coveting. She had been an anomaly in his otherwise predictable world. The little blonde dancer who would neither bare her face nor give her name - who accepted no gifts or offers of patronage. On provocative display and yet untouchable, unattainable. She neither flirted, nor mingled with the patrons like the other girls - she existed solely on stage, for brief periods of time, and then she vanished into thin air, ephemeral as smoke.

            And yet her simple grace captivated the masses. She had turned something that ought to have been sordid into an art, into a thing of beauty and elegance. She didn't rely on lewd gyrations, on elaborate and risqué costuming, on fans or veils - but then, she didn't need to. She had the smooth sweep of sleek, fair hair down her back, the dusting of cinnamon freckles over her bare shoulders, the silky golden skin, the siren smile. They had called her the Golden Butterfly - for she had provided no other name - owing to the glittering gold mask that concealed her features and tipped up and outwards at the corners, unfurling like a butterfly's wings.

            Her distinctiveness had earned her a bevy of infatuated admirers. She had never given even the slightest indication that she preferred any of them - in fact, at one performance, a man in the front row had had the gall to reach out and stroke her ankle. Her disdain had been palpable, her rage overt - she had lashed out, striking the man in the chest with a swift kick that had toppled him over backwards in his chair, to the amusement of the audience. Amidst a deafening chorus of cheers and whistles, she had stormed off stage and had not reappeared. Still, the lesson had been learned - the offender had been quickly ejected from the club, and no one since had dared to trespass upon her person.

            Still, he wondered if she had had any idea what the outcome of that incident had been - her popularity had soared to unprecedented heights, betting books had been filled with pages of wagers over her favor, rewards had been offered for anyone who could unmask her and reveal her identity. And all the while, she had been sequestered in the relative safety of Lowtown with the other street urchins, protected by the assumption that the woman behind the mask was a bit more socially respectable than a penniless orphan.

            Well, she _had_ been...once, in a different world. And had it not changed, she would still be firmly ensconced in her ivory tower, safe and protected in the shelter of her family, and the male population of Ivalice would never have had their carnal appetites whipped into quite such a frenzy.

             No one could have guessed that her aloof persona was not affected, carefully crafted to stir up the greatest possible sensation. It had been the common consensus that she was merely playing her admirers off one another to land the greatest possible catch and acquire the richest patron, the better to fill her coffers. So of course it had come as no small surprise when her rare appearances had ceased all together.

            But then, Balthier knew now why they had stopped - Penelo had been kidnapped, spirited away to Bhujerba, and they'd been traveling across Ivalice ever since. And he had spent the majority of that time condescending to the one girl in all the world that had ever held his interest for more than a few hours.

            He supposed she was due a bit of gloating, but he suspected her vindictive streak would require a few more hits to his ego before she was placated regardless of the blow she'd dealt him this evening. She had reveled too much in his discomfort for him to believe she'd been satisfied.

            But, then...two could play at that game. She might well think to make him suffer for his arrogance and hubris - but she could not maintain her distance in the process. If she thought she had the upper hand, all the better, for as long as she believed she held the power, she would cease shying away from him.

And, as he was one of the few people in all of Ivalice who knew her secret, he had been afforded a prime opportunity. It was no secret that she - at least, her famous counterpart - had fallen off the face of Ivalice some months ago. But then, he had inside information that others did not. She _had_ fallen - right into his lap.


	6. Chapter 6

Balthier was halfway through his second tankard of ale when Fran appeared in his doorway.

            "Penelo has not yet returned," she said by way of greeting. "It is growing late, and she is alone in an unfamiliar city." She leaned against the doorframe, studying him impassively. He wondered briefly if she might be surprised to find him in his cups, as he rarely indulged as a general rule. Strange how it had taken so little time in Penelo's company to drive him to it, twice in as many days.

            He ignored her censorious statement. "I'm assuming you had already guessed at her past _employment_ in Rabanastre," he said.

            She inclined her head. "Masks hide secrets only from Humes," she acknowledged. "They disguise features alone; they do not alter one's nature or character."

            When he pinched the bridge of his nose in consternation, she reminded him, "I did warn you against seeking her secrets. Had you listened, you might be the better off for it." She folded her arms over her chest with a sigh.

            "Oh, I don't know about that." He polished off the last dregs of the ale, pushing away the empty mug. "I confess, it was a shock - but I think I would have discovered it eventually. At times, she seemed so familiar, but until now I could not place it."

            "And has anything changed, now that you have dragged it out of her? What purpose has it served, except to send her fleeing into the night?"

            Balthier's brows rose in surprise. Fran was not the sort to readily form attachments, but it seemed she had at least acquired a modicum of fondness for Penelo, or she would not have questioned him. Curious, that - he had of course done questionable things in the past, but Fran's only criticisms had been reserved for his carelessness or recklessness. Never over how his actions might affect another person; they were thieves and pirates, they could hardly afford pangs of conscience.

            "You know that I don't have it in me to let secrets go undiscovered," he chided gently.

            Fran's lips compressed into a firm line, disapproving. "That one is different," she said. "I would ask you to let her alone if I thought you would heed such a request." She sighed heavily. "If you do not intend to train her up to be a worthy partner, you ought to keep your distance. You take, Balthier. It has not been your way to be kind or selfless; you will take and take until there will be nothing left of her. Of all people, she deserves better."

            "I will take your opinion under advisement," he said diplomatically.

            She huffed her irritation. "You will not." She turned to go, but before she crossed the threshold, she said, "It is not merely Penelo for whom I am concerned. She could be a danger to you as well."

            "I'll admit she's got the tendency toward violence when riled, but she'll not be able to surprise me so easily the next time. I've too many years of experience under my belt to underestimate her again, so you need not worry for me."

            She shook her head, as if amazed at his ignorance. "It was not physical danger to which I referred," she said. "But do as you will. I only hope it does not leave you with further regrets."

            ---

            Night had long since fallen and still Penelo had not returned. He had expected her to sulk for a bit and then perhaps seclude herself away in her room, but hours had passed and still she had not reappeared. While he didn't particularly worry for her safety - he had little doubt that she could look after herself - he was beginning to suspect that his high-handed interrogation had done a bit more damage than he had anticipated.

            Now he paced the foyer like an anxious father, debating the best course of action. Damn it all, he was too set in his ways to be acquiring scruples, too inured in piracy to develop a sense of responsibility. And yet as the stately grandfather clock ticked away the endless minutes, a growing sense of unease settled in his gut.

            There was no help for it; he would simply have to find her. Preferably before anyone else realized she had gone missing. The consequences might otherwise be dire indeed - did anyone else go prying into her affairs, she might very well lay the blame at his door and that would hardly go well for him. Of a certainty it would spell death to his chances of winning that wager with Vaan, an unthinkable proposition.

            He slipped out the front door; the raucous city noise had ebbed to a bare murmur, the majority of the townspeople having been chased inside by the chill of the night air. In the day, the heat could be nigh overwhelming, but as night fell and the last of the sun's rays disappeared, the temperature would steadily drop, helped along by the sea spray. The hour was too late for any shops to remain open, aside from select taverns and bars which would be accepting patrons until the early hours of the morning, but somehow he did not expect that Penelo would be found amongst them.

            She valued her privacy; she would wish for peace and quiet in which to collect herself, he was sure. Away from the city, then - he turned left and skirted the hedges framing the manor. The house stretched on, but finally there was a gap between where it left off and the sea wall began, barely wide enough to squeeze through. Through it, he heard the lulling sound of cresting waves, the cry of a gull, and, he thought, the low trill of a flute. It was a sad sort of tune, the climbing notes warbling plaintively and drawn out in mournful tones only to fade beneath the crash of the waves breaking upon the rocks.

            Carefully he squeezed through the gap, edging his way along the wall until the narrow passage widened into a carefully maintained garden. And there she was in the distance, perched precariously atop the tall sea wall, legs dangling over the edge, framed by the crescent moon rising over the ocean.

            The song died away, her hands dropped into her lap, still curled around her instrument. She could not hear his steady approach over the sounds of the surf. With one hand she shoved her wind-tangled hair away from her face, and she lifted the flute once more. For a moment he expected another wistful melody to come singing on the breeze, but instead she raised her arm over her head, pitching the instrument into the ocean.

            As he neared, she grabbed her satchel, dumped the contents into her lap, and began sorting through them one at a time.

            He thought she might've sniffled.

            At last the fingers of one hand closed around the object. She dashed the other across her cheeks, wiping away tears as her shoulders slumped. Again, something in his chest stirred in sympathy.

            She lifted her hand, drawing it back to fling the object into the ocean, but before she could let fly he caught her wrist. Gasping, she twisted around in surprise, nearly losing her balance in the process.

            Of course, he would be the very last person she wished to see. She ducked her head, swiping at her cheeks again, making an irritated sound in her throat. "What do _you_ want?" Her voice was hoarse, raw, as though she'd been crying for hours.

            "You stormed out hours ago," he said. "It's grown rather late. You'll be missed if you stay out here much longer."

            She shrugged, a pathetically jerky lift of her shoulders. This close, even with the moon giving the only light, he could see the gooseflesh that rose on her skin. Her wrist was cold and damp beneath his fingers, owing to the mist coming off the sea, the hours she'd passed sitting exposed to the elements.

            "What've you got here?" he asked, stroking his thumb across her closed fingers. For half a moment, they clenched tighter in instinctive denial. But finally she gave a sigh, angled her hand so her palm lay flat, and uncurled her fingers. He plucked the object from it and released her wrist, turning to lean against the sea wall beside her.

            A silver key. He held it up to better examine it in the moonlight; it was finely wrought, with delicate etching and a bit of faded, frayed gold ribbon looped around the top.

            "The key to my home. It's useless now, of course. They changed the locks out immediately," she said bitterly.

            He offered it back to her; she accepted it with a little nod, then hurled it into the hungry waves below where it vanished without even a splash. Next she held up a bracelet with several charms dangling from it.

            "It's not precious. But I've had it since I was a baby." She fingered the dainty charms lovingly. "My mother marked every special occasion with a new charm." She separated them, holding up one charm - a dainty pair of ballet slippers - for his inspection. "She gave me this one for my first dance lessons. I wonder what she would think of how I have put them to use." Her jaw clenched, she swallowed hard. Then the bracelet, too, sailed through the air to join the key in the depths of the churning ocean.

            "Do you think she would be disappointed?" he asked. Then, before she could answer, he added, "I don't."

            Startled, she turned to face him, her brows drawn together in wary inquiry.

            "You survived, as you said," he said. "There's no shame in that. With limited options, you still managed to find a way to support yourself. That's admirable by any standard."

            She made a rough sound in her throat, covering her face with her palms. "Don't you dare pity me, Balthier. I swear by all that's holy I'll toss you into the ocean as well."

            He chuckled. "Dear girl, I don't have it in me to pity anyone, so you may put that fear to rest." He braced his palms on the top of the wall, lifting himself onto it beside her. "I confess, I hadn't quite expected to discover that you had been a...dancer of some renown." Despite his careful description, she snorted. "But I certainly don't think it shameful, nor even something you would need to hide."

            "It's necessary, I assure you," she said. "I really was quite famous. Did you know that?"

            She was famous still. Her infrequent performances were not so very far in the past - did she make a reappearance, the male population of Ivalice would fly into an uproar. In fact, he doubted even _she_ knew exactly how popular she had been - she had never left Rabanastre, could not know that she was well known even in other provinces, that men would travel from distant lands to see her. That _he_ had traveled from distant lands to see her. 

            He shifted uncomfortably at that disturbing thought, but she did not notice. Instead she said, "Even the less popular girls, they had trouble with some of the patrons. The owner - careful as he was and despite his best efforts - was only one man. He couldn't protect us all of the time. Occasionally some of the less savory men would follow one of the girls home. One was attacked when she refused to become a nobleman's mistress; he left her with a scar across her face and she couldn't work anymore. I don't know what happened to her after that. I never saw her again." She turned to face him, eyes luminous, lashes spiked, evidence of the tears she'd shed prior. "Someone once offered to buy me. To _buy_ me, Balthier."

            Another unpleasant revelation; he had never before considered the hazards of such a profession. It was so easy to forget that those girls did not merely exist on the stage, but had lives outside of such entertainments  - that they might be troubled with unprincipled men who could not separate the woman with the work, that there were men that chose to ignore the fact that being a dancer did not convey further invitation. "I see," he said inanely.

            She laughed without mirth. "Do you? Do you, really? Do you know, then, what could happen if anyone found out about my past? Those other girls, they had homes, families, people to protect them. I don't. I'm alone. I need the protection of anonymity."

            He considered that, a frisson of alarm sliding up his spine. Had anyone discovered her secret, she would have had no protection at all. What protection would an orphaned girl have had against a determined admirer, after all? "Understandable," he said. "But in the interest of honesty, I suppose I ought to tell you that Fran already knew."

            She slanted him a skeptical, hurt look, and he held up his hands in a gesture of placation. "Ask her yourself if you don't believe me. You need not fear that she will let it slip - she wouldn't even tell me." He gave a heavy sigh, confessing, "Actually, she cautioned me against pursuing your secrets - said I'd regret what I learned."

            She gave a bitter laugh at that, folding her arms over her chest. "You ought to have listened," she chided.

            "No, I cannot say I regret it." He reached over, plucked a trinket from the pile on her lap - a tiny, wooden carved figurine depicting a chocobo. "But I do regret upsetting you." That much was true; he had never been particularly moved by a woman's tears, but then the women of his acquaintance had always used them as a ploy for attention, the basest form of manipulation. He had never before been faced with honest tears, having been the cause of them. Far from evoking the usual revulsion and disdain, they had forced softer emotions to the surface, the sort he'd long thought vanquished. The sort a man in his line of business could hardly afford to fall prey to.

            He held the figurine out to her. "This one?"

            She took it, holding it gingerly in her hand. "My brother Emerick carved it for me," she said in a strangled little voice. For a moment she held it close to her heart, stroked her fingers over the glossy varnished back. Then she let it fly to be swallowed up by the sea.

            Partially hidden beneath the mound of trinkets, he caught a brief glimmer of gold. Reaching over, he snatched up the mask, holding it up to the moon's pale light. Sequins adorned it in swirling patterns, seamlessly blending with a spray of gold glitter around the edges. Many a vendor had tried to copy it, but all the replicas had been poor imitations - this one had weight in his hand, a solid sense of reality, like diamond instead of paste.

            He traced the edges, admiring the craftsmanship. "It's quite pretty," he said.

            She shrugged. "I made it myself, years ago." Then came a tiny flutter of laughter. "It was for a costumed ball at the palace, actually. But no one really paid any attention to me there, so I'm not particularly surprised no one noticed." As she spoke, she tossed two more trinkets into the water.

            "Keep this one," he said, handing the mask back to her. She accepted it with an expression of bewilderment.

            "Why?" she asked. "It serves no purpose now." She would never wear it again - she'd either be well-rewarded by Ashe if they should succeed...or she'd be dead. In either case, she would have no need for it.

            "To remind you of who you are," he said, in a low, contemplative voice.

            Her fingers curled around the mask, the glittering armor that had been her only separation from the ugliness she had lived through these past three years. "Who am I, then?" she asked bitterly. "I don't know anymore."

            He sighed, resting his elbow and his knee and propping his chin in his hand. "You think _that_ ," he said, nodding to indicate the mask, "is some sort of guilty secret, a flaw, a dark and sordid symbol of weakness. It's not - it's a talisman, a mark of strength. It's your proof of character. You've spit in the face of adversity, overcoming it despite your reduced circumstances. Recognize it for what it represents - determination, a courageous spirit."

            She ducked her head, horrified by the sudden rush of tears that welled. It had been so long since she had last seen that damned mask as a thing of beauty. That Balthier could so easily give it new meaning, that he could make her want to reclaim it was startling to say the least. But for the first time in years, she saw not the taunting glitter of the sequins but rather felt the solid weight of it, the sturdy, unbreakable frame hidden beneath the gilt veneer. With a shaking hand, she carefully slid it back within the confines of the satchel at her side, and he nodded in silent approval.

            But his silence persisted only until she resumed her task, tossing the next trinket into the sea.

            "You've carried them around all this time," he said, indicating the pile of trinkets still in her lap. "Why cast them off now?"

            She sighed, a wistful little sound. "Why keep them? They're just trinkets, memories of a life that no longer exists. It stings a bit to discard them, but I can't bear the weight of them any longer. I'm not that person anymore. I'm so far removed from that life." In one motion, she thrust out her arms, scraping the rest of the trinkets into the waters below. But she watched them disappear, and her expression was broken, like she'd give her life to snatch them back. Her lower lip trembled; she swiped at her eyes again.

            To distract her, he said, "Perhaps I owe you a secret in return for yours."

            His gambit was successful to a shocking degree; she jerked towards him, golden brows arching comically high. She said, "Why?"

            He shrugged. "To put us on equal footing. To atone for causing you distress." Perhaps because he might actually admire her to some extent. Perhaps a part of him might even _like_ her. Which he had not expected, but would certainly make winning Vaan's wager more pleasant.

            For a moment she considered him, searching his face for signs of mockery or dishonesty. But at last she said, "All right. That's fair."

            "I'll ask the same concession from you - this reaches no one else." It would likely come out anyway, but having it in the open now would only complicate matters.

            She nodded her assent. "I don't carry tales."

            He drew in a harsh breath. "In Archadia, I was a Judge. Not for long, mind you, and it was only due to my father's connections that I was given a judgeship at all. I was my father's only child, and he expected me to do my duty to the country of my birth. I broke with Archadia within months, fled the city with a stolen airship and turned to piracy. But my father - he is truly mad. He will not rest until he has corrupted the very heart of Ivalice. And as soon as the _Strahl_ is repaired, we go to Archadia to meet Reddas and confront him." He met her eyes. "Do you understand what I am telling you?"

            She stared, still and silent, for a moment uncomprehending. Then at last she gasped, shocked, and scuttled backwards. Her chest heaved with each breath that shuddered from her lungs, her eyes wide and unblinking. "Your father is...is..."

            "Cidolfus Bunansa."

            "T-that's not possible," she breathed.

            He chuckled humorlessly. "I assure you it is. No one could regret it more than I."

            "I don't believe it. I can't." A hysterical gurgle of laughter escaped; she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle it. But it grew on itself, too wild to be contained. To his eternal consternation, she tipped back her golden head and laughed. Laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks. Laughed until her voice grew hoarse once more. Finally her unexpected mirth subsided; she rubbed at her cheeks - her tears had left behind gritty traces of salt on them.

            At length, she asked, "If it comes to it, will you be able to kill him?"

            "Without a doubt," he said. "That he is my father is merely an accident of birth. I disclaimed him years ago. Unless he is stopped, he will plunge the whole of Ivalice into war and strife. The world will be better off without him."

            She nodded, accepting his words as truth. "All right. I think I believe you."

            He arched a brow. "And you will keep it a secret? It ought to go without saying that revealing such a thing at this juncture would place me under a good deal of suspicion. I've waited years for this opportunity; I'll not surrender it now." He hesitated. "It's possible that it'll come out anyway, of course, but I'd prefer it be later rather than sooner."

            She chuckled again, shaking her head. "Balthier, you may rest assured that I will take this secret to my grave. Wild chocobos couldn't drag it out of me." She collected her satchel in her arms and with a dainty twist, she spun around and hopped off the wall, narrowly avoiding an unfortunate landing in nearby rose bush. "If you'll excuse me, it's quite late."

            "A moment, Penelo."

            She paused as he, too, alighted from the wall and strode towards her.

            At length he said, "Earlier, in your room, I was presumptuous and thoughtless. Have you forgiven me?"

            She titled her head to one side, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder, lustrous in the pale glow of the moon. "Does it matter?" she asked. And without awaiting a response, she turned on her heel and left.

            And he was left alone to mull over her unexpected response, finding, curiously, that it did matter - very much, indeed.

            --

            Penelo closed the door of her room and leaned back against it with a heavy sigh, scrubbing her face with hands that trembled. Of all things she could have imagined, _that_ had never been among them. How could it have been? It was absolutely absurd.

            Why in the world had Balthier chosen to confide in her? For that matter, why had he even pursued her in the first place? He had even apologized, in an odd sort of way - she suspected he had little experience with apologies, else he'd have asked her pardon instead of asking if she'd forgiven him.

            His very appearance out by the sea wall had perplexed her. Of course, she had initially been furious - but he had thwarted her expectations of his hateful behavior. Instead, she had the strangest feeling that he had been attempting to comfort her. That was no guarantee that he wouldn't revert to type tomorrow, of course. But then, he had given her a weapon to wield against him, relying solely on her promise that she would not.

            And of course she would not. That could end catastrophically.

            How could something so simple have become suddenly so very complicated?

            She pinched the bridge of her nose, took a few deep, even breaths, but even that failed to calm her thundering heart. Her blood roared in her ears, cacophonous in the otherwise silent room. An only child. He was an only child - the only son of Cidolfus Bunansa. His name wasn't even truly Balthier. It was _Ffamran_.

            Again, a tiny flutter of laughter escaped her. He did not know - that was the only explanation. He truly did not know, and she could not decide if that made it better or worse. This was simply too much to take in. He had confessed his parentage and she had laughed in his face - because it was either laugh or cry. She slipped down the door, collapsing in a tangle of limbs to the floor.

            Dear gods - Balthier was actually Ffamran mied Bunansa, the only son of Cidolfus Bunansa.

            And her fiancé.


	7. Chapter 7

Balthier was awakened at an ungodly hour by a frantic pounding at his door. He groaned, squinted at the door in the muted light - good gods, the sun had barely risen yet. Hadn't _anybody_ any respect for a man's sleep? He dragged a pillow over his head and rolled over, but whoever was making that atrocious racket merely redoubled their efforts. The walls - solid though they were - shuddered beneath the onslaught.

            Gritting his teeth, he plucked the pillow off of his face long enough to shout, "Have you any idea of what time it is? Return at a decent hour." And then he promptly rolled over and covered his head once more.

            But even the plush pillows could not muffle Vaan's retort. " _Strahl's_ fixed. Be ready in ten minutes or we'll leave without you." Again, the walls trembled as Vaan stomped away.

            "Not in _my_ godsdamned airship you won't," Balthier growled, hoisting himself out of bed. His clothes weren't draped over the bedpost where he'd left them, but instead folded neatly on a chair near the bed. It seemed that one of the servants must have crept in at some point during the night to launder them, for they were freshly pressed and - thank the gods - _clean_.

            Not that he didn't have clean clothing aboard the _Strahl_ , but the thought of wearing the same garments he'd donned the last three days without them having been washed first - even if only for a few minutes - was, frankly, appalling. Within minutes he'd dressed and collected his things, slinging his bag over his shoulder and slamming out of the door. He had never been a particularly early riser, and without so much as a cup of coffee to ease him into wakefulness, he could hardly be expected to be in anything but a surly mood.

            Fran, Ashe, and Basch were waiting in the foyer already. Rista was there as well, accompanied by a couple of servants - one carrying a tray of pastries, one carrying a tray of mugs from which steam billowed in elegant whorls. The rich scent of perfectly brewed coffee permeated the room; Balthier's spirits rose with it. After the swill he'd been forced to resort to of late, this stuff ought to be the nectar of the gods.

            At his entrance, the servants bobbed hasty curtseys. His ability to offer pleasantries was notoriously stunted so soon after waking - he mumbled something approximating a greeting and reached for a mug. The maid might've offered cream or sugar; he really had not been listening - he merely curled his hands protectively around the mug lest she try to take it from him and drank it down, black and just this side of scalding. In other words - perfect.

            "I'd have expected a lack of punctuality from Vaan, but not Penelo," Ashe fretted. "We really haven't the time to waste."

            "She was awake far later that she ought to have been," Fran said, casting a meaningful glance at Balthier, who raised his brows over the rim of his mug.

            The telltale sound of Vaan's thundering footsteps preceded him; he appeared at the top of the stairs a shortly after. "Sorry," he called. "Had to shake her awake. Didn't even hear me pounding on the door."

            A few minutes passed, and then Penelo, too, arrived - and Balthier nearly choked on his coffee. Gone was the worn, faded outfit she had clung to so tenaciously; instead she was clothed in the scarlet outfit he'd purchased for her. He had purchased it based only upon the fact that she had liked it - he had not stopped to consider what it might look like.

            That had been a mistake - because it was almost indecent. Her midriff was completely bare; the scarlet pants riding low on her hips as if they'd been molded to her. There were slits down both sides from hip to mid-thigh laced up with gold ribbon, allowing a scandalous amount of skin to show through. The top was barely more than a bandeau with cap sleeves; it clung to her like a second skin. The richness of the color brought out the golden tones of her skin, made her fair hair glow.

            He was so startled that it took him a moment to collect himself and notice that her jaw was clenched, her chin tilted at an impudent angle.

             "Sorry," she muttered. "I couldn't find my other clothes."

            Ahh - so it had not been her choice, then.

            "Dear," Rista clucked sympathetically, "those old things were hardly fit even for the rag heap. I had these ones pressed for you instead." She presented Penelo a flaky scone; Penelo accepted it sulkily. She seemed worn out; there were dark, purpling smudges beneath her eyes as if she'd not gotten enough sleep.

            "Rista," Balthier said when he trusted himself enough to speak, "you've done us all a monumental favor."

            Penelo's head jerked up; she fixed him with a glare that promised retribution. In answer, he lifted his mug towards her - a subtle salute that brought color to her cheeks - embarrassment or anger; he knew not which.

            She dropped into a chair, curling in on herself protectively, seeming uncomfortable in her own skin. Probably, he mused, she'd never worn quite so little clothing in public - at least without a mask to hide behind. As the daughter of a wealthy family, she'd probably been cloaked from head to toe in costly and conservative gowns.

            "Well, now that you've all gathered, I'll take you up to the _Strahl_ ," Rista said. "I've taken the liberty of providing some rations; the less you are seen about town, the better. This way, please."

            She lead them through the house, to a winding staircase that curled all the way up to the roof. Balthier was unprepared for the surge of joy he experienced when Rista flung open the door, and he saw the _Strahl_ at last, as pristine and beautiful as the day he'd run off with her.

            "Wow," Vaan whispered in a covetous tone. And Balthier could hardly blame him - fully restored, she was a thing of utter beauty to behold, all sleek lines promising dizzying speed and smooth travels.

            "Only one of her make," Balthier murmured. "A prototype - she's unique in all the world." She had been his first - and greatest - heist. If he lived a million years, he would never tire of her.

            Rista gave a signal to a mechanic standing by; the dock extended, creating a ramp that would lead them into the cabin.

            "Archadia awaits," she said. "Reddas will be expecting you, so pray do not keep him waiting." She made a shooing motion with her hands, and wished them well, collecting stray mugs from Balthier and Basch before retreating back inside the manor.

            Balthier took the lead with Fran at his heels, the rest of the party following behind them up the ramp and into the ship proper. Reddas' crew hadn't merely repaired her damage; they'd done a bit of a shine-up as well, and her interior glowed with renewed vibrancy. He sank down into his chair at the helm, firing up her engines and thrilling to their silky purr.

            Fran took the seat beside him, punching in the codes to bring up her navigation board. "Is it safe, do you think, to store her in the Aerodrome?"

            "It's been six years, but she's still recognizable. Let's not risk it - we'll bring her down elsewhere," he said. The others settled into their seats, and Balthier pulled back on the yoke, gently lifting the _Strahl_ off the ground.

            "How long is the trip?" Vaan inquired.

            "Two hours, give or take," Balthier said. He glanced over his shoulder - Penelo had curled into her chair, her cheek resting upon the arm, eyes closed. She gave a weary sigh; probably she'd be asleep in moments. Luckily for her, she could expect a smooth ride from the _Strahl_ , whose easy handling and expertly designed glossair rings made her something of an anomaly - she combated turbulence, which gave her unmatched speed and kept her stable and sure in the air.

            "Can you teach me to fly?" Vaan buzzed like a gnat in his ear, peering over his shoulder to examine the _Strahl's_ console.

            To get the boy off his back, Balthier merely grated out, "Later. We've more important things to focus on currently."

             Vaan slunk back to his seat with a huff of disappointment. He nudged Penelo, who stirred only enough to mumble something that sounded irritable.

            "Let her sleep," Ashe said. "Poor girl, she looks as though she needs it."

            Balthier did not disagree - but he wondered why. True, it had been past midnight when they'd parted company, but that had still left her some eight hours in which to get a restful night's sleep. What had she been up to that she appeared so exhausted?

            "Probably just the beds," Vaan said absently. "You get used to sleeping on the ground after a while."

            Balthier found himself glad that his back was to them, for no one could see his wince - the discomfort these tiny revelations caused was disturbing. To distract himself, he set some minute adjustments to the _Strahl's_ course, then pulled back on the yoke and engaged the throttle - the ship accelerated swiftly, soaring up through the clouds. Reddas' crew had done a fine job with her; she flew beautifully, and he pressed her for every bit of speed her could wring from her, slicing through the open sky towards the distant horizon, sailing on a sea of clouds.

            Below, in the small, rare gaps where the clouds parted to reveal it, the landscape rushed by in a blur as they hastened onward to Archadia.

            --

            On the outskirts of the capitol city, just past the point where the wilderness gave way from rugged wilds to thick forest and finally to lush, perfectly manicured lawns, Balthier put the _Strahl_ into descent. A short ways in the distance loomed the Aerodrome, incongruous to the countryside in which it had been built. But there had simply been no place for it among the densely packed urban sprawl that was the city proper, and so it had been constructed some distance away to allow for the large passenger ships that brought in travelers from all over Ivalice.

            Fran judged their position, their destination by their descent. "Is that...?"

            He nodded tightly.

            She considered the vast estate towards which they were heading thoughtfully for a moment, then turned to him, murmuring, "Do you think it wise?"

            He shrugged. "It's lain empty for years - you see the neglect?"

            Compared to the well-maintained grandeur of the surrounding manors, this one had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. Its once-immaculate lawns had become a breeding ground for all varieties of weeds. Its gardens, for lack of care, had conglomerated into a jungle of thorny thickets, overrunning the cobblestone pathways that had once meandered through it and now were almost entirely hidden from view.

            The _Strahl_ touched down gently, obscured from view by the border of trees along all sides of the estate, her landing marked only by the ripples that spread out in waves through the overgrown grasses.

            "Where are we?" Ashe asked, rising to peer out a window for a better look. Beside her, Penelo stirred at last, lifting her arms above her head and stretching with a sinuous motion that arched her back and pointed her toes.

            "An abandoned estate," Balthier said. "We'll not be noticed here; no one has visited this place in years. Docking the _Strahl_ at the Aerodrome would hardly be advisable, and this estate is convenient - the Aerodrome is a short walk to the west, and Draklor is to the east, just inside the city itself. Provided we call no undue attention to ourselves, we can remain here safely for the time being."

            Basch rose from his own seat, brow furrowed. "How can you know we will not be discovered?"

            Balthier turned in his chair to face them. "Because it belongs to my family. As I've said, no one's been here in years." He glanced briefly towards Penelo, wondering if she would give away what she knew, but she merely busied herself with collecting her things.

            "I'll go collect the message from the Aerodrome," she said. "If someone can direct me."

            "I'll accompany you -" Ashe began, but Penelo waved away her offer.

            "You can't - if you're recognized, we're done for. You must remain out of sight for as long as possible, and the Aerodrome's bound to be crawling with guards." She handed her satchel to Vaan for safe keeping.

            "Fran, then," Ashe suggested.

            "Fran's a Viera; she draws attention merely by existing." Penelo cast a half-smile at Fran to indicate she had intended no insult - Fran acknowledged her point with a graceful inclination of her head. "I've got to do it. No one will take notice of me."

            Balthier disagreed - she might've escaped notice in her drab garments, but she was hardly the nondescript urchin that she had been. It was as if she had shed more than her former attire - she had shed the manner of woebegone orphan with it. She seemed years older, she held herself differently, as if her former clothing had been merely her chrysalis and she had cast it off to reveal herself a butterfly at last, unrecognizable from who she had once been. She would likely attract more attention than she knew. However, most of their party had prices on their heads, and they hadn't a better option at present.

            "We'll get settled here, then," he said. "Take the main road to the left; it'll lead you directly there. It oughtn't take more than half an hour to get there and back, so don't tarry - if you're not back by then, we'll come searching."

            With a nod, she stepped lightly down the ramp, waded through the tall grasses, and finally disappeared from view.

            --

            It had taken Balthier the work of only a moment to pick the lock on the door leading inside from what had once been the gardens. He had had to endure only one question from Ashe over his lack of a key, to which he had snidely asked her if she possessed one for her home, at which point she had wisely dropped the inquiry.

            The inside of the manor fared little better than the outside; dust had collected on every surface - further evidence of its abandonment. Cobwebs dripped from the rafters and fixtures, motes of dust floated through the air, which in itself was stale and stagnant. It seemed the once grand house was decaying from the inside out, a fitting metaphor its owner.

            He lead them through the corridors, the echo of their footfalls the only sound the house had borne witness to in the better part of a decade. The drawing room at the front of the house lay nearest the front door. Its large picture window looked out over the front lawn, which once had been a rich, vibrant green and had since faded into sepia tones, like a fading memory of its former glory. He beckoned them in, flicking back the lace-edged curtains that had yellowed from their former pristine white. 

            "This place is a dump," Vaan said, collapsing into a chair, sending a cloud of dust bursting into the air. "Seriously - who lets a place get like this?"

            Though he had no fondness for the house himself, Balthier found himself bristling at Vaan's criticism. "I apologize if it does not meet your standards," he gritted out. "Would an alley have been preferable?"

            Ashe shifted uncomfortably in her own seat. "It must have been lovely here, once," she said in a pitiful attempt to defuse the tension.

            "No," Balthier said shortly. "It's been rotten as long as I've known it." He was not referring to the furnishings, though Ashe could not have known that. Out of the corner of his eye, he registered the portrait of his father that hung on the far wall. No one had yet remarked upon it, but that hardly indicated they had not noticed. But then, it had been painted when Cid had been significantly younger, and perhaps no one would make the connection.

            Vaan leapt to his feet. "Penelo's coming!"

            Balthier peered out the window; Penelo was racing up the drive, a blur of crimson as her feet kicked up dirt and dust. In her hand she held a sheet of parchment paper that fluttered in the wind. He crossed to the front door, turning the lock and flinging it open just as she reached the steps.

            "We've got to go!" she cried breathlessly, brandishing the sheet of paper. "We've got to go _now_!"

            Her frantic cry drew the others to the door; Ashe took the paper from her hands as Penelo gasped for breath. Her eyes darted as she skimmed the note, her face paling.

            "Cidolfus is set to depart the city with the shard," she said weakly. "Reddas has gone on to Draklor without us."

\--

            ' _Come at once, or all may be lost,_ ' the note had read. Balthier knew better than any of them that Reddas had likely risked death to go alone - Draklor was filled to the brim with trained soldiers, and Reddas was only one man. He hadn't a prayer of success on his own.

            They walked along the thoroughfare towards Draklor as quickly as they dared, but the hour was still early enough and the distance from the city proper far enough that the only travelers they encountered were those on their way out of the city to  the Aerodrome. None among those they passed were looking for a dispossessed princess and her companions, and thus they were subject to only the briefest indications of interest, and none that held for more than a moment or two. Still, Balthier could not believe such luck would prevail in the confrontation to come.

            The massive brownstone building rose high above its neighbors; a testament to Cid's arrogance. Entry from the front would be unwise; the foyer was a choke point leading to the main lifts - thus he drew them to a halt.

            "There is a back door," he said. "It will be guarded, but not so heavily as the front entrance. There is a lift there that is used only by employees - it will take us directly to the top."

            His knowledge went unquestioned; no one had attention for anything other than the matter at hand. But then, as a sky pirate, he might have been expected to be a fount of forbidden knowledge, the kind obtained by listening at keyholes and intercepting messages. They ducked into the alley between the buildings - no guards patrolled, which meant they'd be lingering in the hallway within; they merely needed to flush them out. A simple enough task; he banged on the door.

            At once it flew open and a single guard came barreling out only to find himself on the business end of half a dozen weapons. His own weapon lay useless in its holster; his fingers jerked toward it.

            "I wouldn't." Balthier pulled back the hammer of his gun, four inches from the guard's head, the metallic clink deafening. "You'll be dead before you draw."

            Immediately, the guard's hands lifted in surrender, lest Balthier grow twitchy with his finger curled around the trigger of his weapon.

            "Wise decision." Balthier struck out, connecting with the side of the man's head. He dropped like a stone, unconscious.

            "Security's going to hell these days," Balthier said grimly. "It's likely the good ones have been conscripted into military service, leaving only the dregs for private security." He glanced over his shoulder. "That's good news for us, at least."

            They filed into the corridor, encountering only two more guards on the path. Both were so easily dispatched that it sent a frisson of unease up Balthier's spine - something about this was just a bit too simple. Cid had always been protective of his laboratory; indeed, it had been more precious to him than his own family. It simply was not in him to leave it so poorly guarded.

            The lift climbed the flights rapidly, rising straight to the top of the building, but the wait was interminable since they knew not what would await them when they emerged. At Balthier's instruction, they shoved against the sides of the lift, cramming themselves at the edges for protection, lest an ambush await them at the top.

            The lift slowed its ascent, settling in at the top floor. Slowly the doors opened, revealing a lone guard. Basch reacted on instinct, leaping towards the man, sword drawn - this guard was not to be taken by surprise; he neatly countered the blow, the sharp sound of steel clashing with steel ringing through the air.

            "Hold," Balthier ordered. " _Reddas_?"

            Slowly, the guard lowered his weapon, then sheathed it altogether. "My apologies," he said. "I'd not expected you to arrive in time." He lifted the helmet from his head, tucking it under his arm. "You cannot imagine the lengths to which I went to acquire this uniform."

            "Judging from the state of it, I'd say you lifted it from a guard who has likely had better days," Balthier drawled.

            Reddas shrugged. "Needs must when the devil drives," he said carelessly. "I'd thought to take the building by force, but I could ill afford to wait for your arrival." He held out his hand, a gesture of peace. "Would that I had left with you years ago - we might not find ourselves at this juncture now."

            Balthier was more than a little surprised by the admission, and he clasped Reddas' hand in his firmly. "We were friends once," he said. "Let's finish this together, then, shall we?"

            A curt nod; Reddas turned briefly to Ashe. "My lady, I have wrought more damage than I can ever hope to mend, and so I shall not ask your forgiveness, for I have yet to become worthy of it."

            Dumbfounded by the frank statement, Ashe, who had been prepared to deliver a scathing rebuke, deflated abruptly. Reddas had not awaited a response; instead he turned and headed down the corridor leaving the rest of them to trail along in his wake.

            Balthier swiftly caught up, matching Reddas' quick strides. "Something feels off," he muttered under his breath, unable to shake the nagging apprehension that had gripped him.

            Reddas nodded once, a short, quick motion of his head. "I thought so as well," he returned. "It was far easier to infiltrate this place than it ought to have been. _Far_ easier. I cannot believe Cid would leave his research facility so poorly guarded."

            "It's a trap," Balthier said. "It's got to be a trap."

            "Almost certainly." Reddas shot him an assessing glance. "Will you flee while you are able?"

            Balthier shook his head. "This moment has been too long in coming; even if it is a trap, there is no other choice."

            Before them, the corridor ended at a set of wide double doors constructed of intricately carved wooden panels - Cid's inner sanctum.

            And as they paused outside of them, an amiable voice called from within, "Welcome, welcome! Do come in...you are _expected_."


	8. Chapter 8

The heavy doors opened of their own accord, flinging wide in a smooth arc to admit them, revealing the interior of the large room within. Done up in understated muted tones, it admitted only the barest amount of natural life, lending it a gloomy, dismal atmosphere. There was no carpet to muffle sound, no slightest hint of luxury that might have provided even the minutest concession towards making the office the least bit inviting. The most telling feature of the room was a long line of filing cabinets, attesting to an obsessively ordered personality, a man who believed everything in life ought to be filed away in its proper place.

            A single window high on the wall permitted the only sunlight; the solitary beam struggled through the dim interior to fall upon an ornate wooden desk, at which a lone man sat bent over a mound of paperwork, his head bent, scribbling furiously. He paused in his frantic scrawling only long enough to lift one hand, beckoning their party forward without so much as a glance in their direction.

            Penelo's heart thudded furiously in her chest - this was _wrong_ ; she could feel it screaming through her veins. An icy fear trickled through her, locking her joints. Everything in her protested the summons.

            Reddas drew his sword once more, the sound of the slide of steel against leather unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. Reflexively, Penelo's fingers tightened around her bow, her muscles burning to flee while there might still be opportunity. Instead she steeled herself, poised to reach for her arrows at the earliest provocation.

             Basch subtly eased himself in front of Ashe, murmuring, "Stay behind me."

            At last, Balthier took the critical first step forward, which jarred the rest of them into motion as well. As they crossed the threshold of the room, the doors once again closed behind them with an audible snap. Penelo's skin crawled with gooseflesh, a shiver sliding up her spine.

            Balthier paused just before the desk, his hand steady as he leveled his weapon at Cid's head. "The shard, old man," he said.

            At last Cid set his pen aside, lifting his head. "Ahh, Ffamran, it has been an age," he said smoothly.

            Behind her, Penelo heard Vaan's perplexed murmur, " _Ffamran_?"

            Cid continued cheerfully, as if nothing were amiss and armed intruders were an everyday occurrence. "What, no greeting? I had thought I raised you with better manners, _son_."

            Ashe's horrified gasp rent the air; Penelo notched an arrow in a smooth, fluid motion, training her sight on Cid.

            "Stow the drama," Balthier ground out, no doubt intensely aware of the tension the revelation had caused. "This isn't a family reunion."

            "I wouldn't think so; there's noble blood in our veins, but we cannot claim royalty, thus the princess would be a bit out of place." Cid inclined his head to Ashe, who stiffened in outrage.

            Abruptly, Cid rose from his chair, readjusting his spectacles on his nose. For a moment, Penelo was struck by how alike the two men seemed - Cid's hair bore the greying strands that marked his advancing years, and his face was lined with age, but his eyes were as sharp and as piercing a green as his son's. They were of similar stature, the father's cool poise echoed in the son's bearing.

            Despite the fact that Balthier's weapon had never wavered, Cid seemed profoundly uninterested in the threat it posed. He walked slowly around the desk, his boots steadily clicking across the tile, a sound which frayed Penelo's already shot nerves still further.

            "So many familiar faces," Cid murmured, ticking them off on his fingers as he looked them over. "The lady pirate, the disgraced son, the exiled princess, the king killer, the lord of Balfonheim." His gaze wandered over Penelo, lingering briefly upon her. For half an instant, something flicked in his eyes, some brief flare of what might've been recognition. But he continued on, focusing instead upon Vaan. "You, boy - you I do not know. What business have you amongst these esteemed ranks?"

            As Vaan stammered in surprise, Balthier growled, "His madness overtakes him; pay him no attention." To Cid, he grated, " _The shard, now._ "

            "Oh, yes, where have I put it?" Cid patted his pockets as though a stone of such importance to the whole of Ivalice were no more than an afterthought to him. Finally he produced it; it lay flat and dull in his palm - until he lifted it in Ashe's direction. Suddenly the amber stone thrummed, pulsing with light from within.

            "How badly do you want it, princess?" Cid murmured in a cajoling tone. "Would you kill for it? It holds such glorious power - power that ought to be yours. Its use is yours by right of blood; with such a tool at your disposal, you could bring the whole of Ivalice to its knees before you. All would worship at your feet, the chosen of the gods."

            Penelo stole a glance over her shoulder; though Ashe looked as if she longed to reach for the shard, she shrank away from it - or perhaps just from the man who held it. His eyes gleamed even in the dim lighting, his lips stretched into a menacing smile. As lucid as Cid had seemed initially, he now appeared every inch the madman Balthier had claimed he was.

            When Ashe failed to make a move to collect the shard, frozen in horror as she was, Cid's macabre grin settled into a disapproving frown. "I had expected more of you, Ashelia Dalmasca. Has Raithwall's dynasty at last faltered, producing only a milk and water miss with no ambition, no perseverance? The blood of conquerors and kings runs through your veins, and you would hesitate to claim your legacy?" His voice soared, rising in appalled disappointment, echoing around the high, marbled walls. At last he shook his head, closing his fingers around the shard.

            "Reddas," Balthier said in tone that seethed with anger. "Take it from him."

            He had barely spoken the words when Reddas launched himself at Cid, who casually turned his back on them. Reddas didn't even make it within five feet of Cid - he hit an invisible barrier as though it were a wall; it shimmered in reaction and then pulsated, the energy crackling until a moment later it erupted. The resulting shockwave burst outward, unavoidable - it tossed each of them backwards as if they were feathers in the wind.

            Penelo felt her feet leave the floor with a sense of shock; she could hear only the pulse of her heartbeat, the ringing that the burst of energy had left in her ears. For a moment she was weightless, time slowed, the room dipped and spun. Then there was a bright burst of pain; her head and shoulders collided with the wall nearest the doors, her hip crashed against the floor as she fell. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.

            She couldn't get her bearings - her head spun, she glanced about the room, attempting to make sense of the mayhem that had so quickly come and gone. Ashe and Fran were sprawled all the way across the room, stirring only slightly, with Basch lying unmoving nearby. Vaan's head sported a gash from where it'd struck the desk; he had been thrown across it and his impact had cast the papers upon it everywhere - they drifted about the room, casting shadows in the narrow shaft of sunlight. Reddas and Balthier had been tossed into a corner in a heap like discarded garbage.

            Only Cid had been unaffected - he surveyed the damage without apparent interest. Unhurriedly, he strolled across the floor. The click of his boots resounded like gunfire in Penelo's ears; she flinched, fighting back the nausea that swelled. A low chuckle, dark and ominous, split the air.

            Penelo reached for her weapon, but her arms shook so badly from the shock that she could scarcely support herself enough to remain sitting upright. She thought Cid would merely walk out the door, but instead he paused, going to a knee before her; she pressed herself against the wall. Her chest heaved, but her lungs couldn't draw enough air, and black spots pressed in upon her vision.

            She shuddered, sickened, as Cid reached out a hand, pinching her chin in his fingers to lift her face to his.

            "Now, where have I seen this face before?" he murmured. Then he smiled - all teeth, like a ravenous coeurl. "Oh, yes," he said amiably, his voice meant for her ears alone. "My detestable son's promised bride." With his other hand, he stroked the backs of his fingers gently along her cheek and she shivered with revulsion.

            "You're mad," she croaked, her throat tight.

            He cast her a pitying look. "No, my dear," he chuckled, "I'm really quite sane." He sighed. "Such a shame - your parents begged me to bring you to Archadia, you know, after that nasty bit of business with your king. They wanted to send their beloved only daughter to the safety of her betrothed's household. Of course, I could hardly take such a risk, under the circumstances. And of course, after the unfortunate demise of your family - well, an alliance with an orphaned girl of no status and no fortune would hardly have proved advantageous. Nothing personal, you understand - merely business."

            White hot fury roiled within her; she spat a mouthful of blood in his face.

            "That," he hissed, "was inadvisable." His fingers tightened painfully on her chin; his free hand drew back and cracked across her cheek. Bright sparks of light burst before her eyes; her lip split at the impact, her face burned and stung. Her head lolled, the sound of his voice drifting in and out until at last he gave her a firm shake, jarring her back into alertness.

            "You will deliver a message," he said. "Tell her highness that she will have only one chance to redeem herself - in Giruvegan."

            "Go to hell," she whispered, as a trickle of blood ran down her chin.

            "Ah, dear child," he said on a sigh. "I'm already there."

            --

            Balthier recovered his senses enough to lift his head just in time to witness Penelo spit in Cid's face, to see the blow his father struck in retribution and observe her head snap to the side as the sharp crack of Cid's palm against her cheek resound through the room.

            Bitter hatred surged; he shoved himself up - but dizziness assailed him. He fought to steady himself - Cid shook Penelo sharply once and murmured something to her too low for him to hear. Finally, Cid released her; she slumped back against the wall and slid down it, crumpling to the floor, limp and motionless.

            Balthier struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall for balance - too late, too damned late to stop Cid from exiting the room, disappearing from sight.

            Vaan groaned; he managed to roll himself off the desk straight onto the floor. Reddas' armor scraped across the floor as he hefted himself into a seated position, clutching his head in his hands. Fran pushed herself to her knees, crawling across the floor towards Ashe. Basch only now stirred, still flat on his back - he made a brief effort to rise, then collapsed back when his arms refused to support him.

            "He's gone," Reddas said dully. "There was never any hope."

            As Fran helped her to sit up, Ashe asked, "What happened - how did he do such a thing?" She blinked, gingerly testing her limbs for damage.

            "Dunno," Vaan's voice came from beyond the desk. His hands appeared, clutching the top to hoist himself to his feet. "But the room's still spinning."

            They were winded, stunned, bruised - but without lasting damage. Except perhaps for Penelo, who had yet to move. Balthier had been the first to even slightly regain his faculties; with each step he shook off the lightheadedness, the weakness.

            "Penelo," Ashe gasped in dismay. She had risen to her knees, Fran's arm at her back, when she had followed with her gaze Balthier's path across the floor. Vaan shoved himself away from the desk, stumbling across the floor to where Penelo had fallen, but Balthier reached her first.

            He knelt, slid his arm beneath her slim shoulders, but her head drooped back over his arm. Blood smeared her cheek, her chin...but the pulse at her throat beat steadily. She was out cold, but she would be fine - if one discounted the bruise that promised to form high on her cheek, the swelling of her lower lip where it had split.

            "Pen?" Vaan whispered, his face blanched of color.

            "Fine," Balthier choked out in relief. "She'll be fine. She's merely unconscious." What the hell had possessed her to provoke Cid in that manner? She could have been killed. He slipped both arms beneath her, rising to his feet, holding her securely against his chest. Her head slumped against his shoulder, her mussed hair teasing his chin.

            "Reddas, can you stand?" he snapped. Fran and Ashe had assisted Basch to his feet, and once his feet were firmly planted on the ground, Fran moved to help Reddas.

            "He's left with the shard," Reddas said as he rose. "We never had a chance of recovering it - he merely toyed with us."

            "It's in his nature," Balthier bit out spitefully.

            "We must leave at once," Basch ordered. "There is much to discuss. And," he said, fixing Balthier with his firm gaze, "there are explanations to be made."

            --

            Penelo came to some time later; there was a lingering musty scent in the air, reminiscent of that dilapidated inn they had stayed at in Balfonheim. Her head ached terribly - she remembered the vicious strike that Cid had dealt her, and then...nothing.

            She blinked, lifting her head from the pillow upon which it rested to look around the room. Not in Draklor any longer, at least - the walls of the room were done up in fading green and gold paper, curling around the edges, clearly neglected for some years. Afternoon sunlight filtered weakly through tattered curtains at the window, pooling on the floor at her feet. Someone had placed her on a chaise lounge; she presumed her current location was within Balthier's family home. Though she had not seen it from the inside - they had left immediately upon her return with the note - the interior seemed to match the exterior in its lack of care.

            Carefully she swung her legs over the side of the chaise, testing their steadiness - she stood when she trusted them to support her, her abused muscles protesting the action. She felt battered and bruised, but each moment that passed restored a bit more strength. She caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye, jerking in shock - it was just a mirror, but her reflection was startling to say the least.

            The shadows of a bruise had begun to form high on her cheek; she touched her split lip gingerly, wincing at the pain it caused. She wiped at the blood that stained her face, but it had dried to her skin already. She stifled a rueful laugh; she looked nearly as bad as she felt. But at least she'd gotten a little of her own over on Cid, that colossal bastard.

            Low voices from the next room caught her attention; she crossed to the threshold and peeked within, heaving a silent sigh - everyone was accounted for. Basch paced the room, speaking in a low, furious voice.

            "You kept from us your identity for what reason?" he was asking.

            Balthier, seated in a high-backed chair with his legs propped upon a low table, answered reasonably, "What should I have said - _Cidolfus is my father, won't you please let me accompany you so that we may kill him_?" He snorted in derision.

            "The truth would have been a welcome change," Basch countered.

            "And would you have believed me?" Balthier asked. "A notorious sky pirate, an Archadian citizen, _and_ the son of a man like that?" He brushed casually at his vest, scoffing. "I'd have been out on my ear at once. The fact of the matter is that you _needed_ me, and the knowledge I could provide - and I needed an army to have even a prayer of taking him out."

            "How can we trust you? You lead us into a trap -"

            "We would have walked into it anyway," Reddas interjected. "He wanted to be found, he made it simple for us to enter - too simple. I realized it, but I never expected..."

            Basch turned on Balthier. "How can we be sure you have not been colluding with him all this time?"

            "Please," Balthier sneered. "If had intended to betray you, I could have slit your throats as you slept weeks ago. Beyond that, we learned just yesterday of Cid's plans - when would I have had the opportunity to turn informant?"

            Vaan spoke up - "You left the house yesterday evening; I saw you. You could have sent a note then."

            For a moment Balthier looked like he was about to speak in his own defense, but instead he fell silent. Penelo was briefly confused, but she realized then that if he explained where he had been, it might lead to further questions - questions that would intrude upon _her_ privacy. Strangely enough he had kept his silence, permitting further suspicion, to protect her.

            "He was with me." Her voice was strained, but there was enough force behind it to drag every eye to her. "And I knew. About his father, I mean."

            Ashe leapt to her feet, clucking sympathetically over Penelo's bedraggled appearance. She smoothed at Penelo's mussed hair fretfully, gently turning Penelo's face this way and that to better inspect the damage. "You poor dear," she murmured. "We were so worried for you."

            But Basch was not about to allow Penelo's admission to slip by him. "You knew?" he inquired. "How did you come upon this information?"

            She shrugged, gently brushing off Ashe's concern, well-meaning though it was, to enter the room fully instead of lingering at the threshold as she had been. "He told me. I believed him."

            "He is a pirate, less than honorable by nature - did you never suspect he might be using us to further his own ends?" Basch asked.

            Penelo tilted her head to the side. "I can't imagine it would be in his interests to confess his relationship with Cid if he had been working with him - I could easily have revealed him. Seems a bit too much of a risk to me."

            Reddas rose to his feet, scowling. "I can understand your concerns, Basch, but they are unfounded. Allow me to enlighten you."

            Balthier straightened. "Now, Reddas -"

            "Six years ago," Reddas began, talking directly over Balthier's protest, "I was a Judge Magister in the Imperial Army. I commanded many troops, but none proved nearly as troublesome as Ffamran mied Bunansa. He had been assigned to my squadron, this scapegrace son of a well-connected nobleman and scientist, given a judgeship due to those same connections. Despite his reputation as something of a hell raiser, within a month he had settled into his role and performed it admirably. A few months thereafter, he came to me citing his concerns - he trusted neither his father nor the Emperor to serve the people as they'd promised, he carried tales of powerful weapons, secret dealings, rumors of impending war. He thought me an honorable man; he said he was deserting, that I should as well. To my disgrace, I did not believe his stories - and I stayed behind four more years, long after he'd had the good sense to flee, only deserting myself when I could no longer deny the avarice of the monarch, the destruction I'd helped to bring about." He fixed Basch with a steady gaze. "You may decry the honor of pirates, Basch, but Balthier broke with Archadia at sixteen and has not been within its borders since. Even as a boy, he proved himself wiser and more honorable than I - if he says his hand is not in this business with Cid, you may believe it."

            Balthier scrubbed his face with his hands. "For the gods' sake, Reddas, _must_ you? I've not spent years acquiring a reputation as a sky pirate only for you to accuse me of being honorable now."

            Despite the tension pervading the room, Penelo had to cover her mouth to stifle a flutter of laughter. Of course Balthier's primary concern would be maintaining his rakish image.

            Ashe spoke to fill the silence, "His explanation is sound. Basch, you know it would only have placed him under suspicion had he admitted his connection to Cid. Without his guidance we might not have even made it this far." Her shoulders slumped. "For all the good it has done us, anyway."

            "Oh!" Penelo gasped as memory trickled back - Cid, speaking in a low, low voice, pinching her chin tightly in his fingers. She shuddered; that memory would not soon be vanquished. "Cid gave me a message." She turned to Ashe. "He said that you would have one last chance to redeem yourself in Giruvegan."

            Reddas snorted. "A madman's ramblings - that place is a myth."

            "No," Fran said. "It is merely lost to time, its location unknown. It is told of in ancient stories and songs of my people, but even we do not know of its whereabouts. It is said that it was hidden from the eyes of the world, the last refuge of the old gods, the Occuria."

            Ashe dropped into a chair, clasping her hands. "How are we to divine the location of a place that exists only in stories?" she muttered irritably.

            Balthier leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "If Cid knows of its location, you may be sure that Vayne does, as well," he said grimly.

            "Another trap, then?" Basch asked. He paced the floor in vexation, kicking up the dust that had settled there.

            "Most assuredly a trap," Balthier responded. "But the question is - do we walk into it?"

            "It makes no difference, considering we know not even how to locate the place," Basch snapped testily.

            A skirl of exhilaration tightened her shoulders, pulsed through her veins; Penelo whispered, "Larsa."

            "I beg your pardon?" Ashe said.

            "Larsa. Larsa!" Penelo raked her fingers through her hair, wincing as they caught in tangles and pulled. "Larsa knows _everything_ \- he's been observing Vayne for months, years maybe. He loves his brother, but he doesn't trust him. He _must_ know of Giruvegan." She glanced around the room beseechingly. "He'll help us - you know he is sympathetic to our cause; he wants peace between Archadia and Dalmasca."

            Reddas mulled that over. " _If_ we could reach him, the idea has merit."

            And therein lay the problem - Larsa was the only heir to the throne of Archadia; he would be secured in the palace and well guarded. Penelo collapsed into a chair, her giddy excitement dying a swift death. An impossible proposition - they numbered only seven, they could not hope to take the palace by storm.

            "We'd never even make it through the gates," Ashe murmured. "Not without some sort of distraction, anyway."           

            A distraction. A _distraction_. An electric jolt leapt up Penelo's spine; she grew lightheaded, at once terrified and exultant.

            "Vaan, my bag," she said, but she made the mistake of glancing toward Balthier. For a moment he looked baffled - and then his face blanked with shock as he realized her intention.

            "No," he said, but Penelo was already searching through her bag.

            "I'll do it," she said firmly, disregarding Balthier's immediate denial. It wasn't his choice, anyway - it was hers.

            "Do what?" Ashe inquired, her brows drawing together in a frown, gaze flickering between Penelo and Balthier, baffled.

            " _No_ ," Balthier said again, jumping to his feet. "Absolutely not -"

            Penelo ignored him, her fingers closing around the sought after item. "I'll be the distraction," she said. And she pulled free the glittering gold mask, holding it aloft.


	9. Chapter 9

For a moment there was utter silence. Then Ashe gasped, Vaan jumped to his feet with a blistering expletive, and Reddas choked out a horrified denial.

            Balthier snatched the mask from her hand, tossing it aside, heedless of Penelo's furious protest. " _No_ ," he snapped again. "Have you lost your mind? Do you understand the risk?"

            Fran sighed. She had not been surprised by the revelation, Penelo knew - because she had already known. And yet there was no judgment in her gaze; she merely shrugged in an apologetic sort of way, and addressed Balthier.

            "Balthier, the suggestion has value," Fran said reasonably.

            Basch appeared dumbfounded by the varied reactions that Penelo had elicited with the display of a simple mask. He retrieved it from the place that Balthier had tossed it, examining it as if it might hold some clue. Failing to divine its significance, he turned on the party.

            "Would someone kindly explain the meaning of this?"

            Abruptly, Penelo recalled that for the past two years Basch had been imprisoned - well, at least _he_ had not been a patron, so _that_ awkwardness was averted.

            Ashe fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat, a wild flush climbing into her cheeks. As she searched for the right combination of words that would explain the matter with the sensitivity it deserved, Penelo shook her head in consternation.

            "I took off my clothes for money," she said in a biting voice. "There's no use putting a pretty face on it."

            Vaan scrubbed his face with his hands. "That's just...it's just _wrong_ ," he said, making a disgusted sound in his throat. "D'you _know_ how many times I tried to sneak into that club?"

            "Oh, please - you never would have made it inside," Penelo chided. "I made sure they knew to be on the lookout for you." She leaned back in her chair with a heavy sigh. "We needed the money - you can't complain now, when you've lived off the proceeds of it for the past two years." She held out her hands towards Basch, and he handed the mask to her.

            "This was my, ah...costume, I suppose you could say," she said, stroking her fingers along the edges of it. "I thought dancing would just make me a bit of quick gil, but..." She shrugged sheepishly. "I was good. I was popular. The mask was just to hide my face, to keep my identity safe - but I never thought it would be anything more than that."

            "Yes, well, as it turns out, men love a good mystery," Balthier grated irritably.

            Penelo's voice rose insistently. "It's a good plan! I was popular, you know I was!"

            Vaan made a strangled sound, glaring at Balthier. "You _knew_ about this?" he demanded of Balthier in a seething tone. "You...don't tell me you _saw_ her!"

            "All right, then, I won't," Balthier snapped back.

            Vaan launched himself at Balthier - Reddas snagged the collar of Vaan's vest, dragging him away before his flying fist could connect with Balthier's face.

            "This plan of yours - what does it entail?" Reddas asked, grunting as Vaan's elbow planted itself firmly in his midsection. He thrust Vaan away from him; Vaan made another attempt to lunge for Balthier's throat, but Basch stepped in his path, staring him down.

            "Vaan," Penelo chastised. " _Stop_. It was years ago - there's no sense in getting bent out of shape about it now."

            With a final, searing glare in Balthier's direction, Vaan at last shook off his pique and retreated to his seat, shifting restlessly.

            "In Rabanastre, I was sort of famous. Infamous, rather," Penelo corrected with a grimace. "The owner of the club I danced for - he said men would come from all over to see me. It's been a while, but this mask ought to be recognizable still. If I were to wear it here - say, near the palace - it might cause enough of a stir to be a suitable distraction."

            "It's madness," Balthier snarled. He paced the floor, clenching his fists at his sides.

            "But will it _work_?" Basch asked.

            "The reaction Ashe, Vaan, and Reddas provided is proof positive it will," Fran said. "And that was merely the presentation of the mask - only think of the chaos it will cause should Penelo don it in the streets."

            " _It will not happen_ ," Balthier shouted. "You cannot seriously be considering throwing a young girl to the dogs? She'll be torn to pieces!"

            "I'd appreciate an escort," Penelo acknowledged. "Just in case something should go wrong. Sometimes in Rabanastre the crowd would get a bit out of hand - though I don't know exactly how popular I might be here."

            Balthier collapsed into a chair, covering his face with his hands. "Very," he muttered. " _Extremely_."

            "So you admit that it'll work?" Penelo asked.

            Balthier slumped, pressing his fingers to his eyes. " _Yes_ , damn you, it will work."

            Ashe hesitated, twisting her fingers in her lap. "Are you sure you truly wish to do this?" she asked. "We can find another way -"

            "There's not. This is the best chance we've got. You _must_ know it," Penelo coaxed. Tentative nods from around the room - Balthier was the lone hold out, scowling at the rest of them.

            "I didn't say I had _agreed_ to this asinine scheme," he said. She hadn't liked performing in Rabanastre, had desperately guarded her secret - and now she would risk unmasking herself in public to further their goal? Such a move could have disastrous consequences; it was hardly fair that Penelo should shoulder such a risk.

            Penelo rose from her chair, gripping the mask tightly one hand. "All right," she sighed. "We'll do it without you, then."

            She made to leave, but Balthier snagged her wrist as she passed. For a moment he looked as though he were desperately attempting to maintain his composure. Finally, he bit out, "You'll be cloaked until the last possible moment. You will show yourself only long enough to cause a stir. You will _not_ remove your mask, and you will not deviate from the plan for _any_ reason. Is that perfectly clear?"   

            Penelo attempted to wrench her arm away; he merely tightened his grip. With a huff of aggravation, at last she said, " _Fine_."

            He released her at once, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, "Reddas and I will accompany you. Fran, you and Vaan will wait for our signal - we will leave it up to you to locate Larsa. Basch - can you fly an airship?"

            "It's been some years - but I can do it," Basch confirmed.

            Balthier gave a tight nod. "You will have the care of the _Strahl_ ," he said. "Take her highness with you - neither of you ought to be seen within the city proper if it can at all be avoided. We'll need you waiting in the wings should we require a quick escape."

            Vaan muttered irritably, "Who died and made _you_ dictator?"

            "I beg your pardon," Balthier hissed between clenched teeth. "Have you some knowledge of Archades of which we ought to be aware? Can you, for example, tell me the location of the palace, which alleys connect, where the _Strahl_ can avoid detection?" When Vaan folded his arms over his chest and averted his eyes, Balthier snapped, "I thought not."

            A tense silence pervaded the room; Balthier was in a dangerous mood and no one was eager to speak and draw his ire.

            At last, Reddas ventured a comment. "There's more danger in the exit than the entrance," he said. "Splitting into groups - separating ourselves - carries with it inherent risk. Are we simply to reconvene here should this plan succeed? If something goes awry, how shall we communicate it to each other?"

            Balthier stroked his thumb over his chin. "A moment," he said as rose from his seat, disappearing down the hallway. He returned shortly thereafter, dropping a handful of cylindrical objects on the table. "Flares," he said. "We'll use these to signal for help. Use them _only_ if your situation is dire. Basch, you must fly the _Strahl_ above the clouds - set her down only if signaled. Otherwise, we'll reconvene here. Say, no more than an hour from start to finish. Take no unnecessary risks, get out at the earliest opportunity - even if any one of us should fail. We cannot risk a rescue mission - _do not get caught_."

            Solemnly, each collected a flare - they were coated in dust, obviously having been tucked away in some forgotten drawer for years.

            Balthier scraped his fingers through his hair, massaging his temples as if he'd acquired a headache. "We've some hours yet before we begin this - we'll need full dark to move about as we will. She'll need a gown, something eye-catching, to sell this charade - we ought to look through my mother's things to see if there's anything suitable for her to wear," he said tiredly, flicking a hand carelessly to indicate Penelo.

            "Your _mother_?" Ashe gasped in surprise.

            "For the gods' sake - had you imagined my father delivered me into this world alone? Of course I had a mother - _everyone's_ got a mother." He dropped his head back. "She's been dead these past fifteen years; she's hardly likely to mind should we commandeer her things."

            "I simply didn't...I never considered..." Ashe mumbled sheepishly. "That is to say..."

            Balthier waved away her awkward attempts at explanation, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Come, then - I'll leave the attire to you. I haven't the fortitude for it myself."

            --

            "These are all hopelessly out of date," Ashe murmured fretfully as she pulled gown after gown from the closet to lay them out in a pile on the enormous bed upon which Penelo was sitting.

            Fran lifted Penelo's face to the thin shaft of sunlight that penetrated the heavy drapes, examining the mark on her cheek. It had begun to bruise, a shadow of purple high on her cheek, smudged with sickly yellow around the center.

            "It's all right," Penelo said. "It'll be dark, and the mask will hide it."

            "Yes," Fran acknowledged. "But not this. This will want a bit of cosmetic camouflage." She smoothed her finger along the edge of Penelo's swollen lower lip; Penelo flinched away from the touch.

            "Stand, if you please, dear," Ashe instructed, lifting a heavy dress. She pressed it against Penelo's chest, considering it. "You're of a size," she said, pleased. "They shan't want too much alteration."

            "Ashe, I really only need one," Penelo protested. "And it's got to be easy to move in. Half of those will be far too heavy."

           "Well, there's no harm in looking, is there?" Ashe retorted, disappearing back into the closet. "Something simple, I think - you'd be completely overwhelmed in most of these, they're so dripping with frills and flounces." There was the sound of metal hangers scraping against their racks as Ashe combed through the available selection. "Something classic," she murmured thoughtfully. "You'll draw more attention if you appear to set your own fashion. You must be unique, set apart from other ladies..." her voice faded away abruptly - then, reverentially, she whispered, " _Oh._ "

            Moments later she emerged from the closet, a shimmering gold gown draped over her arm.

            Despite herself, Penelo's brows lifted in interest - the heap of discarded gowns on the bed were more or less interchangeable, heavily embroidered, boasting silk flowers, ruffles, starched petticoats, each with a skirt so wide it was doubtful the wearer would be able to fit through a door. Penelo had thought them hideous - tasteless, extravagant, ostentatious displays of obscene wealth. Certainly they had been in the height of fashion when they had been created, but they were too dated now, and all of those underskirts would do nothing more than weigh the wearer down.

            But _this_ , this gown that Ashe had pulled from the depths of the massive closet - it was _perfect_. No stiff underskirts marred its simple lines; it lay in sleek lines over Ashe's arm. No furbelows, no ruffles, merely a clean, smooth drape of silk.

            "It'll want airing out," Ashe said, laying the gown across the bed, smoothing out the delicate fabric of the skirt. "You see the gold threads throughout? It positively sparkles in the light."

            Fran inspected the gown as Ashe ducked back inside the closet in search of a cloak. "This ought to work nicely," she said. "It ties here, at the shoulder - that is fortunate; one less piece to alter. Let us see how it fits."

            With Fran's assistance, Penelo shed her clothing and slipped the gown over her head. It was only a bit loose, a bit long - Fran tugged at the neckline, securing the ties at her shoulders. Penelo turned an experimental circle, and the soft, light fabric moved with her in a perfect bell, swishing about her feet gracefully. The neckline cut low across her chest, lower than she would've liked, but she had a part to play, and she'd not be nearly as convincing were she swaddled in heavy fabrics like an aging matron. An overlay of sheer gold fabric billowed out from the high waist, so weightless it fluttered, giving the illusion of fuller skirts, parting in the middle to reveal the golden skirt in its full splendor. The bodice was separated from the skirt just beneath her breasts with a wide length of ribbon; Fran pulled it behind Penelo's back to tie it into a bow, and the silky bodice drew flat against her chest - perhaps they'd need not alter it after all.

             Ashe returned, a heap of cloaks in her arms, pausing briefly with a gasp. "It's magnificent," she breathed. Hurriedly, she selected a forest green velvet cloak, shaking it out with a snap to loosen the wrinkles. "Shoulders back," Ashe instructed. "Chin up; you bow to no one. You must be proud, haughty - you must command attention and respect."

            The velvet cloak was draped around her shoulders, the hood pulled down to obscure her hair and face. The dark fabric, tied at the throat, would conceal all but the barest hints of what lay beneath until the perfect moment, when it would be cast off for the grandest effect.

            "We'll have to do something with your hair," Ashe said thoughtfully. "And perhaps a bit of rouge to hide that cut on your lip." She met Fran's eyes, her own sparkling with excitement. "This is going to work _beautifully_ ," she said on an exultant breath.

            Fran inclined her head in cautious agreement, but her eyes were troubled. "Let us not grow too confident," she murmured in a pensive tone. "The best laid plans oft have the propensity to go awry."

            --

            Hours later, when dark had at last settled over the city, Penelo sat in a chair as Ashe carefully smoothed a thin layer of deep red rouge over her lips. Already her eyes had been lined with kohl, the lashes darkened. Though the cosmetics felt heavy upon her face, she allowed that they would likely sell their charade better.

            The gown and cloak had been sprinkled with rose water and hung in the sun to air out the musty scent they'd acquired, having spent the last decade or so stuffed in the back of a dark closet. Fran had managed to ferret out an old set of iron tongs, wrestling her hair into a mass of shining curls, which she had then gathered with a pair of tiny gilded hair combs, sweeping them away from Penelo's face to tumble down her back. The mask was firmly in place, tied behind her head, the cloak tied securely at her throat, hiding both her face and gown.

            Finally she was pronounced ready, and together they made their way down the stairs to the drawing room, where the men were waiting impatiently for their arrival.

            "At last," Balthier groaned. "I shall never understand how such a simple thing as dressing  can consume so many hours."

            Ashe shot him a glare, huffing irritably at his complaint. She turned to Penelo. "Courage," she said. "Let no one question you. You can brazen this out."

            Penelo gave a shaky nod, twisting her fingers before her. Though it had been her suggestion to perform this little farce, the reality of what they were about to attempt had finally settled upon her, wrenching her stomach into knots of nerves. She could carry with her neither her satchel nor her weapon - she would have to rely on Reddas and Balthier for protection.

            "We part ways here," Balthier said. "Basch, remember - stay out of sight, above the clouds. We shall take a cab to the palace - no sense in drawing attention to ourselves walking the streets. An hour," he reminded them. "No more than that."

            Ashe squeezed Penelo's shoulder one last time, then she and Basch left toward the back of the house where the _Strahl_ waited.

            The rest of them walked out the front door, unconsciously forming ranks around Penelo. As they approached the main road, the glow of the streetlamps lit the path before them. The night was warm; the sultry heat was nigh overwhelming within the confines of the heavy cloak.

            As they approached the city proper, the cobblestone path gave way to smoothly paved roads, the easier for the cabs to traverse. Though it was late, people yet milled about the city, and it took them a moment to catch the attention of a driver who had just relieved himself of his last passengers.

            He didn't bat an eye as they climbed inside. "Where to?" he inquired.

            "The palace," Balthier said. "Near as you are able."

            Immediately the vehicle surged forward. The driver glanced back at them. "You've an invitation, then, have you? Bit underdressed for it." His gaze flicked briefly over his shoulder at them.

            Penelo felt Balthier stiffen beside her. Despite that sudden tension, he kept his voice calm and even. "Oh, we're not going _to_ the palace," he said easily. "It's merely a convenient landmark, where we are meeting with some friends unfamiliar with the area. Out of curiosity, however...what event is there that requires an invitation?"

            The driver gave a bark of laughter. "It's the Emperor's birthday - he's returning from Dalmasca to mark the occasion among his own people."

            "I see," Balthier said. "Well, let us hope the crowds are not too thick, or we'll be late to make our meeting."

            For a moment he was utterly silent, then, in a low voice so as not to be overheard by the driver, he said, "I'm calling halt - this situation has grown beyond our control."

            "No," Penelo whispered back. "We've come too far already - the larger the crowd, the larger the distraction."

            " _Yes_ ," he hissed in response, "and also the larger the likelihood of danger. I cannot allow -"

            "You are not in a position to _allow_ anything," she snapped. "This is a done thing. We can't turn back now."

            He would have argued further, but Fran placed her hand upon his arm. "It is Penelo's risk to take," she said. "It might well be our only chance. She is brave enough to seize this opportunity - will you leave her unprotected?"

            Silence settled over them, until at last Balthier hissed out a begrudging assent. His jaw was tight; a muscle ticked in his cheek. "You'd best pray that you can get in and out quickly," he snarled. "Reddas and I can only provide so much protection. And _you_ ," he snapped at Penelo. "Best you be prepared to _run_."

            --

            The cab drew to a stop some ways before the palace, the throngs of people rendering the street impassable. Balthier passed a handful of gil over to the driver, who tipped his hat as they exited the cab and gathered on the sidewalk, sheltered in the shadows where the light of the lamps faded.

            The steps leading up to the palace were lined with people in exquisite evening wear, each carrying a gold-embossed vellum invitation. Two armed guards stood before the gates, carefully inspecting each invitation before admitting its owner.

            "This will be tricky," Balthier mused. "We've neither invitation, nor the time to waste waiting in line."

            _Brazen it out_. Penelo heard the echo of Ashe's advice in her head. "We're going to skip the line," she said. "We'll walk right up to the guards there. Fran, Vaan, as soon as there's a moment, you slip through. Don't hesitate; take your chance as soon as it comes." She resisted the urge to swipe her hand over her mouth, lest she smudge the rouge that Ashe had so carefully applied. "There's so many people - but if Balthier and Reddas can hold them off for a moment or so, I think I should be able to slip away."

            "Fran, go that way," Balthier nodded to the shadowy corners of the street. "The shadows ought to provide enough cover."

            Like the thieves they were, Fran and Vaan disappeared into the murky shadows, edging toward the gates, lingering there out of sight.

            Reddas set his hand on her shoulder. "When you're ready," he said in a low voice.

            Penelo steeled her nerves, setting her shoulders proudly, as Ashe had said to. Reddas and Balthier fell into place on either side of her, and she took that first critical step forward, gathering her skirts in her hands so as not to tread upon the hem.

            Together they skirted the crowds, drawing the ire of the nobles who were impatiently awaiting their turn to enter the palace. Penelo merely raised her chin, ignoring the outraged murmurs of complaints. Reddas and Balthier strong-armed their way through the flocks of people, clearing a path for her.

           The closest of the guards placed his hand on the hilt of his sword as they muscled their way towards him. "Here, now," he blustered. "You can just take yourself to the back of the line or you'll not be gettin' in."

            _Courage!_ She had to act offended, furious. _Let no one question you._ Though her stomach clenched in fear, her voice was steady and strong. "I beg your pardon," she announced in a scathing voice. "How _dare_ you speak to me so? I do _not_ wait in _lines_." She called upon every ounce of disdain she could muster - every bit of it that had collected over the years, for people like these, the nobles that had looked down upon her, the men who had thought to purchase her favors. _Proud, haughty - command their attention._ "The Emperor will hear of this outrage."

            The icy clip of her voice befuddled the guards, sent murmurs of confusion rippling through the crowd. She felt the heat of their burning stares even through her cloak, had heard Reddas and Balthier draw to a halt beside her - even they had been taken aback by the commanding tone she had employed.

            The guards exchanged wary glances, uncertain how to act - if she truly had the ear of the Emperor, things might go poorly for them indeed. "Er...begging your pardon, miss," one of them said. "Have you an invitation, then?"

            The moment of truth - she only prayed that Balthier had not misjudged her fame. "I don't believe I require one," she said. With surprisingly steady fingers, she slowly tugged free the cloak's tie at her throat. The velvet split, revealing a swath of the golden gown beneath, shimmering in the light of the lamps. Curiosity made the crowds press forward, hoping to get a glimpse of the arrogant woman who had declared she needed no invitation to enter the palace.

            A hush descended - Penelo thrust back the hood; her hair spilled free, the lamplight sparked off the mask's sequins, glittering like stars, dazzling the guards.

            The first guard said, "Gods above," in a reverent voice.

            The second choked out, "It's...it's...the _Butterfly_."

            Instant chaos - the crowds surged, Balthier and Reddas drew their weapons, the guards leapt into the fray in Penelo's defense...and Vaan and Fran slipped past the briefly unguarded gates unnoticed and into the palace.

            Penelo only barely stifled a heartfelt sigh of relief - it had worked, and better than they could have hoped. Only now they had to get away from the milling crowds. But only four men held back the wave of frantic nobles; they pressed in closer - a man managed to sneak a hand through, close enough to clench a fistful of Penelo's dress in it. Disgusted, she swatted it away, watching with satisfaction as Balthier elbowed him in the stomach, dropping him to the ground.

            "See here!" one guard shouted above the din. "We'll have order, or no one's gettin' in!"

            There was no break in the crowd; it was all the four men could do to hold off the masses. No escape - Penelo's heart leapt into her throat. 

            "What is the meaning of this?" A harsh voice broke above the rest; slicing through the frenetic voices of the crowd. Slowly the furor died down, the clank of armored boots on pavement rising over the ebbing frenzy. The crowd parted gradually, and Penelo's heart plummeted to her stomach. A wave of curtseys and deep bows crested through the crowd.

            It could mean only one thing.

            _Too late to escape. Far, far too late._

            A line of guards had shoved the crowds to either side, permitting a path, and a lone figure passed through, climbing the steps.

            And she could only watch, frozen, as Vayne paused before her, praying that the mask would hide her horror.


	10. Chapter 10

_Brazen it out!_ her mind shrilled.

            Vayne had drawn to a halt before her, clearly expecting the reverence he was due as Emperor.

            _Bow to no one_.

            It was such a risk, but...she tipped her chip up, gracefully extending her hand to hover in the space between them. A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd at her temerity. But Vayne's brow had lifted in interest...and he bent over her hand, taking it in his and raising it to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles.

            Her skin crawled; she barely stifled a shudder of revulsion. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Balthier go rigid, poised to attack. She gave a tiny shake of her head - with so many guards about, he'd be dead before he tried.

            "My dear," Vayne said as he lifted his head. "This is quite a surprise - and an honor. Do allow me to escort you inside, and you may tell me how you have come to be here." He lifted his arm for her to take.

            "Your Excellence is too kind," she demurred. "But I can go nowhere without my guards - for reasons which ought to be obvious." Her gaze flickered to the crowd; his mouth drew into a frown as he considered the chaos that had swallowed up the palace steps moments before.

            But he didn't spare so much as a glance for the two men she had proclaimed her protectors; merely waved to the guards to allow them through. "Of course. I shouldn't wish you to feel unsafe," he purred.

            As Balthier and Reddas cautiously approached, stopping only a foot or so behind her, she set her hand on Vayne's proffered arm, and allowed him to lead her inside the palace.

            This was a dangerous game she played - Vayne was shrewd; unless she handled herself exceedingly well, he would sense something was amiss. She would have to captivate him, hold his attention so thoroughly that he would be dazzled, unable to see past the sparkling exterior she showed to the roiling turmoil beneath.

            "The last I had heard, you called Rabanastre home," he said. "You must imagine my surprise to find you outside my gates. How did you say you had come to be here?"

            A simple conversation, fraught with such peril. She had never had to charm a man in her life; now she regretted that she had not, for surely such skills would have benefited her here and now. Flattery, flirtation - they were alien to her. _Think, remember!_ She racked her brain; how would the girls at the club have handled him?

            "I didn't," Penelo countered neatly. She tipped her head back, releasing a sweet trill of laughter, hoping it did not ring false, and lightly squeezed his arm. "My lord, surely you will allow a woman _some_ secrets."

            _Success_. His lips curled in a half-smile. "Some, perhaps," he acknowledged. And he paused briefly, lifting his free hand to trace the edge of her mask. "But not all."

            His message was clear - he hoped to unmask her, to see what no one else had.

            Penelo gently drew away from his hand, murmured, "That remains to be seen." Flattery and flirtation would get her only so far - she had to be original, unique. He would remain interested only so long as she kept him guessing.

            He arched a brow, clearly fascinated by her confidence. "You dare much, lady. Not many are those who would gainsay me."

            "Have I, my lord? I do not recall saying as much." She shrugged, an elegant lift and fall of her shoulders that sent her wild curls swaying down her back. "I merely have yet to decide whether we would suit."

            He coughed into his hand, ostensibly to muffle his surprised laugh. "Are you seeking a patron, then?" he asked, the barest hint of interest coming through in his voice.

            She inclined her head gracefully, but elaborated no further, and allowed him to draw his own conclusion as to her purpose here. They reached an intersection in the hallway - to the right, the sounds of gaiety and merriment echoed along the marble corridor. To the left, silence. After a moment's hesitation, he gestured to the left, and they proceeded - away from the celebration in his honor.

            At length, he asked, "Am I to assume that you have come to make me a proposition, then?"

            Again she laughed, her lips curving in amusement. "No indeed, my lord."

            "Oh?" he asked. "Might I inquire, then, what it is you have come for?"

            She favored him with a smile. "I thought I might do you the honor of being the first to plead your suit."

            He stopped abruptly, and for a moment she feared she had overstepped - but at last he threw back his head and laughed, delighted by her daring. Then he sighed and  reached out to cup her chin in his palm, stroking his thumb along her cheek, just beneath the edge of the mask. It took everything in her to keep her eyes soft and welcoming, to resist the urge to jerk away from his touch.

            "My private office," he said, nodding to indicate a set of double doors a few feet away. "If you will join me, I believe we have terms to discuss." His gaze flickered briefly to Reddas and Balthier - he acknowledged their presence but considered them beneath his notice. " _Alone_."

            "Of course, my lord," Penelo murmured. She gave a dismissive wave, indicating that they should wait without, and allowed Vayne to lead her into the room, the doors swinging shut behind them.

            After they had been shut out, Balthier turned to Reddas. " _Go_ ," he whispered. "Find Fran - tell her all. She'll come up with something."

            "Better we both go," Reddas said.

            Fear was a sharp knife twisting in Balthier's gut - Penelo was alone with a monster. "No; I'll remain here - someone's got to." Because she was unprotected, in a dangerous game of cat and mouse - one on which her very life might depend.

            Reddas stared, bemused. "She's handled herself well enough thus far - had him eating from the palm of her hand."

            " _Go,_ damn you _,_ " Balthier hissed. "The longer you tarry, the longer she is trapped in there with him!" Vayne would entertain her audacity for only so long. He was the most powerful man in Ivalice; he would not be denied. Behind closed doors, anything could happen - and Penelo was without weapons. Closeted away in that office, Vayne held all the power.

            --

            Vayne gestured to a low sofa against the wall, indicating that she should sit. He crossed the room toward his desk, upon which rested a crystal decanter and a couple of etched glasses.

            "May I offer you a drink?" he inquired, pulling the cork from the decanter, filling one of the glasses with amber liquid.

            "Please," she said.

            Obligingly, he filled another glass, then replaced the cork and the decanter upon the desk and collected the glasses. He strolled towards her, offering her a glass, then took a seat beside her - too close, but she could not move away; she was in his domain, trapped.

            She lifted the glass to the light, admiring the way the etching in the crystal refracted the light, colorful glimmers of light dancing across the walls. Cautiously, she took a sip; the liquor burned like fire down her throat, and she coughed.

            Vayne chuckled. "Brandy," he said. "The best in Ivalice - Bhujerban in origin. You don't imbibe?"

            _Tread carefully._ "Certainly not of the swill served in Rabanastre," she said. "I'll confess an occasional indulgence in sweet wines, however."

            "Oh?" She had not noticed how his arm had settled over the back of the sofa; he brushed his palm over her shoulder, catching a lock of her hair in his fingers and rubbing it between them. "And what else will you confess, my beauty?"

            With a shock, she felt a tug on the strings of her mask. She gave a haughty sniff and pulled away, lifting her chin to frown disapprovingly at him.

            "My lord, we've yet to discuss terms," she said firmly. "I am not in the habit of sharing secrets without security."

            His patience was wearing thin, she realized, for he merely scrutinized her, his brows drawn. "And _I_ am not in the habit of making a purchase without first inspecting the merchandise," he said crudely.

            Her back snapped straight in outrage. "I think perhaps we will not suit after all," she said icily, and made to rise.

            He snagged a fistful of her hair in his hand, dragging her back down. "Not so fast, sweet. A woman in your position cannot afford to let slip so powerful a patron so easily. I can make it well worth your while."

            "You ask too much, my lord," she hissed. "This mask is more than my protection; it is my _livelihood_. I could not expect such a lofty patron were I to remove it - every man wishes to be the first."

            "And so I shall be," he said. The light of avarice gleamed in his eyes - more than her body, he wanted the prestige, the envy that would follow her favor. He was a man who believed he was due the best of everything - and he had decided that he was _entitled_ to her. "So do away with your disguise, and we may commence our negotiations."

            To refuse would be suicide - he could easily compel her obedience. Still, her fingers trembled as she reached for the strings that would unmask her.

            A furious knock sounded at the door - Vayne hissed an expletive. She pitied whoever had drawn his attention, for surely they would bear the brunt of his ill humor. He slanted her a speaking glance; he would take it poorly did she move from her seat.

            He jerked open the door, snapping angrily at the guard who had dared intrude upon his privacy. Hushed words were exchanged; the door was left standing open as he crossed to her once again. She risked a glance beyond it, heart dropping to her feet as she realized that Balthier and Reddas were gone. 

            Vayne had composed himself somewhat, though a banked fire still glowed in his eyes. "You will excuse me," he said tightly. "A matter has arisen that requires my attention. I trust you will await my return?"

            She gave a swift nod, but his eyes narrowed - he did not believe her, she realized. She had overplayed her hand; he knew that she would flee were she able. And as he exited the room and closed the door behind him, she heard the click of a key in the lock. She took a gasping breath and dropped her head into her hands. She was well and truly trapped.

            --

            Balthier listened for the sound of retreating footsteps, and only then poked his head out of the door he'd slipped into. The hall was deserted - Vayne had likely not even noticed that Penelo's guards had slipped away. She had kept him so captivated that, until the untimely interruption, he had had eyes only for her.

            He crossed the hall, twisting the handle - locked. From within, he heard a muffled sob. He extracted his pick set from his pocket, dropping to his knees before the door. Moments later, the lock gave way, and he rose, flinging the door open.

            A gasp - Penelo had leapt to her feet, hand over her mouth. For a moment she merely stared, eyes wide and stunned. At last she seemed to process that _he_ had crossed the threshold rather than Vayne - with a whimper of relief her legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed to her knees on the floor.

            He reached her in three strides, kneeling down and grabbing her shoulders. "Are you well? Did he harm you?"

            She shook her head frantically, tears sliding down her pale cheeks beneath the mask. "S-scared," she managed brokenly. Her hands gripped his arms, seeking the steadying strength of them. "I th-thought you had left."

            His heart twisted in his chest - she was so young, so fragile, that indomitable spirit smothered by the fear that had her clutched in its grip. As if of their own accord, his arms slipped around her; drawing her close to his chest. She trembled - quaked in his arms - and her head dropped onto his shoulder; she sobbed in earnest.

            "Shh, darling," he soothed, stroking her mussed curls. "You've done beautifully. Shh. It's over; you're safe."

            She went rigid, her nails biting into his back. "C-Coming back," she stammered. "We've g-got to go. _N-now_." Her sobs had subsided to unsteady pants, as though she could not draw enough air into her lungs.

            "Can you stand?" he asked. She nodded shakily; he rose and helped her to her feet. Still she trembled; he had to get her away to safety. He seized her hand tightly in his; she gripped his fingers like they were a lifeline.

            The hall remained deserted - Vayne and his retinue of guards had gone left, and so Balthier lead Penelo to the right.

            "I sent Reddas on to find Fran and Vaan," he whispered to her. "Probably they've created the diversion that called Vayne away. Now we need only -"

            A low whistle sounded; he thrust Penelo into an alcove, pressing her against the wall with his body, hoping they would be shielded from view. Slow footsteps approached; Penelo tensed - she drew in her breath and held it. The fear in her eyes clawed at him.

            "Ahhh, _there_ you are."

            Penelo jerked at the words - but then her shoulders went lax; she shivered in relief. "Larsa," she whispered. Balthier shouldered away from the wall, turning to face the hallway.

            Larsa's mouth drew into a frown as he saw Penelo's obvious distress. "You must come at once," he said. "The others have already gone - I've hailed the _Strahl_ ; she awaits beyond the gardens. I will show you the way."

            --

            Larsa lead them through a maze of corridors, winding deeper into the palace. Though they had encountered no guards, still Penelo clutched desperately at Balthier's hand, starting at even the slightest noise.

            When he dared, Balthier finally spoke, "How did you find us?"

            "Fran and Vaan found _me_ ," he said. "They asked about Giruvegan, and I told them what little I know of it. They told me of your plan, and I offered to contact the _Strahl_ so that they could escape. I was taking them to reconvene with her when we came across Reddas - he said my brother had trapped Penelo in his office." He shrugged. "Once I had delivered them to the _Strahl_ , I merely had to come in search of you. Of course," he said mischievously, "I _did_ tell the guards to inform my brother of intruders in the west wing beforehand."

            Penelo sniffled; Balthier reflexively squeezed her hand reassuringly in his. "Our thanks for your timely arrival," he said.

            Larsa waved away his gratitude. "Cidolfus has a great deal of influence over my brother, and not for his betterment - if you can stop him, I would be much obliged."

            Wisely, Balthier kept his peace - the boy was not yet ready to admit that Vayne was too far gone to be rehabilitated. That day would come, but it would not be this one, and he would not alienate Larsa by pressing the issue.

            They turned right down a hallway, and it opened into a large anteroom with windows lining the far walls - and a set of glass doors, leading out onto a terrace.

            Larsa gestured toward the doors. "Those will lead you out into the gardens. Stay to the right, if you will - if you go left, you'll wind up near the ballroom, and there will be guards upon you before you can blink." He stared solemnly up at them. "I cannot go with you - Vayne will not be occupied for much longer. But I wish you good luck and safe travels."

            Penelo managed a tremulous smile. For a moment, Larsa appeared spellbound, and Balthier glanced at her to see what had elicited such a reaction from the boy. Like he'd been struck with a current, he jolted - so much had happened so quickly that he hadn't gotten a proper look at her until now. The velvet cape was loose about her shoulders, exposing the gown beneath - it shimmered like liquid gold, lovingly molded to the curves of her body, emphasizing the narrow dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. The sparkling mask framed her kohled eyes, the black paint only making the blue of her eyes more striking. Her fair hair was a riot of wild curls, only just tamed by a pair of gold combs. Her lips had been stained a lustrous ruby, moist and inviting.

            She bore no similarity to the waif she had been just days ago - she looked like a woman who had just returned from an assignation with a lover. And Larsa was staring as if she was every dream he'd ever had made flesh. Something about Larsa's smitten expression got Balthier's hackles up; he only just resisted snarling a threat - which would hardly have been appropriate, given the circumstances.

            Abruptly, Larsa snapped out of his stupor. "You must go - you'll find the _Strahl_ beyond the garden. And you _must_ leave Archades immediately - Vayne is nothing if not determined. He _will_ find you if you linger here." He peered through the windows up at the night sky. "Watch for the flares; they'll guide you safely to the _Strahl._ With any luck, they'll be mistaken for the fireworks."

            Balthier nodded stiffly. "Again, our thanks." He gripped Penelo's hand tightly in his, dragging her along in his wake to the door.

            Outside the palace, the humid night air was redolent with the fragrance of flowers, heady and sweet. As they passed through the immaculate flower beds lined with perfectly trimmed hedges, the dark settled over them like a shroud.

            Behind him, Penelo stumbled. "Keep moving," he ordered firmly.

            "I need both of my hands," she whispered back, in a thin, monotone voice. Shock, he realized - she was going into shock. "It's so dark - I keep stepping on the hem of this blasted dress."

            That blasted dress, indeed - no one had the right to wear such a thing. At least not in public; it ought to have been illegal. Surely it offended common decency. She had looked as though she'd been poured into it, it clung so sweetly to the soft contours of her body. 

            "Balthier? My hand," she whispered.

            What the devil had he been doing? He released her hand at once; she gathered fistfuls of material, lifting the skirts so that she could move unencumbered. In the distance, above the merrily chirping crickets, he heard the soft hum of the _Strahl's_ engines. And then, with a soft pop, a burst of light tore through the sky, marking their destination.

            "Not much further," he said, his voice curiously thick.

            As they rounded the last bend that would put them out on the back lawn, the ship came into view. The ramp was let down, and even in the darkness he saw the glow of the moon on steel - someone was standing watch at the ship, gun at the ready.

            Penelo's breath shuddered out in joy - she dashed forward, running headlong for the safety of the ship. As she flew past, he, too, increased his pace. She reached the ship before him, of course, the sound of her boots thunderous on the metal ramp. He heard a triumphant cry and boarded the ship to see Fran curl her arms protectively around Penelo.

            Ashe was petting Penelo's fair hair, murmuring to her soothingly. "There, there," she said. "You've done so well, dear." At the kind words, Penelo dissolved into wrenching sobs.

            The dock closed behind Balthier, sealing them inside the ship. Basch took a seat at the helm; he was not so practiced a pilot as Balthier - the lift-off sent the ship lurching to the right. Balthier cleared his throat, barely avoiding a snarled order to Basch to have a bit of care with his ship.

            "Fran, will you take her bed? She's overwrought; she'll need rest to recover," Ashe said.

            Penelo lifted her head from Fran's shoulder long enough stay, "N-no, I'm fine; I want to hear it - about Giruvegan." But her breaths were coming in fierce pants and she had begun that wretched trembling again, overcome with the relief of escaping the confines of the palace.

            Ashe whispered to Balthier, "Dear gods - what has happened to her?"

            "Vayne," he said grimly. "He stumbled upon us - bloody awful timing. Penelo's quick thinking saved us all, but nearly at the cost of herself. He had her locked in his office for a while, but Larsa invented an emergency to have him called away." He shook his head, his heart pounding anew with the realization of how close a shave it had actually been.

            Ashe shuddered delicately. "What a nightmare - and she has been so brave."

            "More so than you know," he murmured. She had faced a monster like Vayne head on, challenging him, smiling sweetly into his face whilst they plotted behind his back. She had shouldered an enormous risk. He was not surprised she had fallen to pieces in the aftermath - he was only surprised that she had made it through the ordeal with Vayne before her resolve had given way.

            "She thought we had left her behind," he muttered. "She faced him alone, thinking we had abandoned her."

            Ashe's face drew into a somber expression. "Poor dear," she sighed. "I cannot say I would have possessed her courage."

            "To bed with you," Fran urged softly, brushing Penelo's tangled hair away from her face.

            "No! Don't I deserve to hear? Haven't I d-done enough?" she cried, her face streaked with tears, the smudged kohl leaving sooty trails down her cheeks.

            Balthier made a rough sound in his throat. He crossed the deck, prying her out of Fran's arms. He reached behind her head, tugging the strings of the mask free, pulling it from her face. With the sleeve of his shirt, he gently scrubbed the kohl from her cheeks - they were clammy and cold beneath his fingers. She allowed the gesture - her eyes closed, and she swayed on her feet. He pressed his fingers to her throat, felt the rapid flutter of her pulse.

            "It's not a matter of deserving to hear," he said in a low voice. "Anyone would be shaken by what has occurred today. You're in shock; you _need_ to be abed. This will keep until morning."

            To his utter astonishment, she nodded. Her voice was a bare whisper. "All right."

            "Fran will take you; let her assist you."

            "No, wait -" she clutched desperately at his sleeve. "You could have left me." She hiccoughed. "You could have left me there with him. You probably should have. But you didn't."

            "Darling -"

            " _Thank you_ ," she whispered. Her eyes opened, clear as day, so bright, tears trembling upon the dark lashes. Her lower lip quivered. "You could have left me, and you didn't. Thank you for rescuing me."

            Her piteous whisper dredged up a riot of emotions; they roiled within him, warring in his head. In her conflicted mind, he had become her savior, he realized - in her darkest moments, when she had been most afraid, _he_ had been the one to rescue her. She would obey his order to retire not because he had talked sense into her, but because she _trusted_ him. In those moments when she had despaired, he had made himself into her champion.

            Oblivious to the stunned stares all around, he pressed his lips gently to her forehead, and murmured, "Sweet, it was my pleasure."


	11. Chapter 11

Penelo awoke with a start, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. Disoriented and confused, she sat up, pressing her hands to her face, wincing as even the light pressure on her injured cheek stung. She was alone in a bedroom, and for one terrible moment her breath hitched in her throat, certain that she'd been imprisoned within the palace in Archades.

            But the window in the wall beside the bed was open - not the massive, elaborately-paned kind she'd have expected in a palace, but rather the small, self-sealing sort found in airships - and the air that flowed through was cool, carrying the unmistakable tang of sea salt. It was quiet but for the soothing roll of the surf, full dark, with only the glitter of stars and a slice of the silvery moon hanging in the night sky. By its position, she guessed it was perhaps three or four in the morning.

            Not Archades, then - Balfonheim, perhaps. Jumbled bits of memory drifted through her mind, but she could hardly make sense of them. She had shut down, she supposed, acting purely on impulse, her higher functions worn down to primitive response, nothing more than action and reaction. She remembered Vayne taking his leave, Balthier's astonishing appearance - but from then on there was nothing but brief flashes of light and sound; the crisp intonation of Larsa's voice, the blur of colors as the flowerbeds had rushed past, the clank of her boots on the _Strahl's_ dock, the feel of gentle fingers stroking her hair, the soft sound of comforting murmurs.

            Recollection came more in feelings than concrete details; she found she could not remember whose faces she had seen on the deck of the _Strahl_ as they had lifted off, could not ascertain if they had made it clear of Archades party intact. That realization had a galvanizing effect; she swung her legs over the side of the bed, shoving herself to her feet.

            She was still wearing the gold gown, only its ties had been loosened, the better to sleep in. It was not uncomfortable - the smooth silk was whisper-soft against her skin, but it brought unpleasant memories bubbling to the surface. But she supposed waking to find herself undressed - and by gods only knew who - would have been worrisome in and of itself.

            The room itself was rather small, its meager size dominated by the bed. Near the door, a dresser and wardrobe, both bolted to the floor. The room itself might have belonged to an inn for all the personality it showed - which was to say, nothing seemed to exist therein to give any hint at its owner's identity. Even the sheets and blankets on the bed were comfortable, but plain. The green velvet cloak had been draped over a bed post, the only spot of color in the room.

            Her feet were bare, her hair felt - and likely looked - as though a colony of rats had spent the evening constructing a nest within it. Her face was possibly smeared with the remnants of the cosmetics Ashe had carefully applied earlier in the evening. But these were things she couldn't fix at present - no comb, no washroom; she'd simply have to do as she was.

            The sliding door had no lock, so she merely slid it across the threshold to where it recessed into the wall, and the _Strahl's_ dim corridor was revealed. She recognized even in the darkness the glossy wood paneling.

            She had barely touched a foot into the narrow hallway when she heard Balthier's low voice from the deck.

            "Go back to sleep, Penelo."

           She disregarded the order, continuing up the hall. He sighed heavily as she poked her head through the doorway, pressing his fingers to his forehead. He had swiveled his pilot's chair around to prop his feet on one of the passenger chairs, stretched out as comfortably as he could make himself.

            "How did you know it was me?" she asked.

            "Fran's in her room and unlikely to rise before dawn. Everyone else has taken up rooms in Reddas' home due to lack of sleeping accommodations aboard the _Strahl_. Ergo..." He waved vaguely.

            "Why are you still here?"

            He fixed her with a pointed look. " _Someone_ had to make sure you didn't do precisely what you've done and go walkabout in the middle of the night...and my room was occupied."

            For a moment she was bemused. Then realization struck - _she'd_ been occupying it. "Oh...I'm so sorry," she said, discomfited. "I didn't realize."

            He waved that away, too. "Hardly your fault. Fran's got her peccadilloes; she does as she pleases. It amused her to give away my room rather than her own, and no one wished to risk waking you when we arrived."

            She blurted out, "Did everyone make it?"

            He tilted his head, scrutinizing her curiously. "Yes. You don't remember?"

            Knees gone weak, she fell into a chair, sighing in relief. "No, I..." she prevaricated. "Just a few bits here and there, I think. Not much between when...when Vayne was called away until now." She stifled a shudder. "It's mostly just blank."

            "Trauma," he said. "It's not terribly unusual. The mind acts to protect itself in dire situations. Rest assured that everyone is fine. We're safely - or at least as safe as we can be, given that we are fugitives from the Empire - back in Balfonheim, whole and unharmed." He laced his fingers behind his head, rocking back in his chair.

            She blew out a breath. "Thank the gods."

            "However, should you _ever_ undertake such a risk again, you'll not have to fear mistreatment at someone else's hands, for I will strangle you myself." He purred the threat, his voice low and ominous.

            Penelo blinked in surprise. "I thought I had done rather well," she said petulantly.

            "It's not a matter of _doing well_ ," he snapped. "You challenged Vayne on the steps of his own palace - you're damned lucky he didn't execute you then and there. If there is a choice to fight or flee, you are _always_ to flee - especially when you haven't a prayer of winning the fight."

            "There wasn't another choice," she retorted. "And besides, _you_ didn't flee when you had the chance."

            He went utterly still and silent, his features frozen in an unreadable mask. Finally he said, in a voice that was almost a growl, "Go back to bed."

            She had annoyed him somehow, she realized. Perhaps he didn't care to have his own advice thrown up in his face...or perhaps he simply didn't care for the reminder that he had disregarded it in the first place. She hadn't ever given much thought to his character, aside from those things that had been off-putting from the first - the arrogance, the apathy typical of the noblemen of her acquaintance - but she was beginning to suspect that those were more fiction than fact, a carefully constructed ruse to set himself apart and keep people at a distance. Briefly she wondered if he was even aware that his actions over the past few days had let slip that mask - just a bit, as though it peeled up at the edges - providing the barest glimpse of the man underneath.

            He lifted a brow in sardonic amusement as she merely settled further into her chair. "Was I somehow unclear? I thought I had used small enough words, the better for you to take my meaning," he said in a cutting tone.

            She cast him a censorious glance at the slight; she imagined that he was simply driven to lash out to deflect attention from himself, to put his opponent - that was, anyone who dared look to closely - on the defensive. "I don't want to go back to bed," she said. "I had a nightmare." She tucked her legs beneath her.

            Again, that slowly arching brow. "What about?" he inquired.

            She shrugged. "I don't remember. I don't think I want to - but my heart was pounding when I woke, and I thought..." She paused, resting her elbow on the armrest and settling her chin in her hand. "I thought I was still in Archades, and I was alone. It was dark, and I was afraid, and I could hardly breathe..." She shivered in remembrance. "There's been many times I've been afraid, but never like that. Never the sort of fear that claws at the inside of your throat, where all you want is to run but there's nowhere to go, and your head is screaming to move but your body won't listen."

            "As if you're carved from ice," he murmured pensively. "As if you're mired in quicksand, sinking up to your neck. Suffocating."

            Her head jerked towards him in surprise, but his own gaze was distant, thousands of miles away, seeing years into the past.

            "Yes," she breathed, astonished. "Yes, exactly like that." And she ventured a comment, "You know, Balthier - I really don't think you're quite as heartless as you'd like everyone to believe."

            Immediately he snapped back to the present, his piercing green eyes narrowing on her face. "More fool, you," he said, acidly, rising from his chair. "Get yourself back to bed. We leave at first light -"

            "Were you worried for me?" she interrupted, and he stilled, abruptly falling silent. For a moment, his face was etched in a rare show of honest emotion - trepidation; as though he'd stumbled into a trap, a maze he knew not how to navigate. And she was...interested. She thought perhaps she was learning to read him, to recognize his tells.

            "Hardly," he snapped at last. "It is only that we cannot afford to lose what few allies we have -"

            "I think you were." She rose as well; she knew she was challenging him but couldn't resist the impulse - adrenaline surged through her veins, making her reckless, daring. Shards of confused memories cut through her mind - the clasp of his hand on hers, his thumb softly stroking over her cold fingers. "You held my hand." There had been the rumble of his deep voice in her ear, the gentle fingers that had brushed the tears from her cheeks, the strong arms that had pressed her tightly against his chest. "You held _me_."

            He made a rough sound in his throat, irritated, and she ruthlessly tamped down the tiny flutter of laughter that threatened to erupt. Only a pirate would be ashamed of being caught acting with kindness. She eased closer, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion - but she only touched the cuff of his sleeve.

            "Did I thank you? I don't remember."

            I don't want your gratitude; I have no use for it," he snarled.

            He had denied her accusation, but she believed that his facade of indifference was his protection, his armor - and somehow, tonight it had been shaken. Of course he would attack, like a wounded animal, growling to camouflage his fear. She wondered if he even knew why the mere suggestion he might have feelings beyond apathy threatened him so.

            In a blur of movement too quick for her eyes to detect, he jerked his sleeve out from beneath her fingers, seizing her wrist in an iron grip. She flinched in reaction, but he had already seized her other hand as well, pulling both of them high over her head until she was forced off balance, up on to her toes.

            "You poke and you prod," he chided, his voice menacing. "Did it _never_ occur to you that occasionally you might wise to be afraid? That there are things - and people - in this world you are _right_ to fear?"

            "Not you." But her breath hitched in her throat as he pressed her backwards, starting as her back hit the cool wall. "Not _you_."

            The flash of his white teeth in the darkness was unnerving, the slow curl of his lips a blatant signal of impending danger. " _Especially me_ ," he hissed.

            Her heart thudded frantically as he pinned her hands above her head. He wanted to scare her - because somehow, she had scared him. He wouldn't hurt her, she reminded herself - not after he'd gone to such risk to rescue her in the first place. She squirmed, anxious despite that certainty, but she couldn't break his grip, couldn't get the leverage to shove him away had she wanted to.

           "Do you know what a man like Vayne would have done to you?" he whispered furiously, scowling down at her.

            "Y-yes," she whispered back. "I'm not stupid. I know what he would have expected."

            "Not _expected_ ," he shot back. " _Taken_. Your agreement - or lack thereof - would have been immaterial." His fingers tightened around her wrists, a subtle threat. "Someone needs to give you a lesson."

            That presumption straightened her spine to steel stiffness. She thrust her chin up impudently, glaring right back at him. For a moment he seemed taken aback at her nerve - but he had set his course already, determined to impress upon her the dangers of treading where she ought not.

            He bent his head, crushed her lips beneath his - she jerked her head to the side, her harsh cry rending the silence. He had pulled back a few inches at the sound, mistaking it for fear, a lesson received.

            But she snapped, "My lip, you overbearing ass - it's cut. Of course it hurts when you do it that hard."

            Not a denial, perhaps even a backwards sort of invitation. His brows lifted in surprise, interest, amused despite himself. He might've succeeded in briefly knocking her off balance, perhaps even unsettling her - but he'd not managed to frighten her. In spite of her current predicament, trapped as she was, she lifted her chin in stubborn challenge. A misstep on his part - he ought to have expected her to be made of sterner stuff.

            And he almost admired that - if only her confidence didn't undermine his own. She had more faith in him than he had in himself, and that was disturbing. He pushed that uncomfortable thought out of his head at once, and bent his head again. A test, he thought - but for which of them, he couldn't be sure. His cheek brushed hers, the stubble gently abrading her smooth skin. Reflexively, her hands clenched and unclenched in his grip; a shiver trembled through her. And when she felt his breath upon her throat, she tipped her head up, not in rejection but in invitation.

            Her breath sighed out near his ear, her tense muscles going lax in a rush. Her skin was still sleep-warmed and carried the faint scent of the soap his bed linens had been washed in; it made him feel strangely proprietary, a reminder that she'd been in his room, his bed. The primitive satisfaction it evoked was devastating. His lips swept the delicate skin beneath her ear; he heard the hitch in her breathing, felt the tremor that slipped down her spine.

            "I beg your pardon," she murmured. "What lesson was I supposed to learn, again?"

            Laughter rumbled in his throat; he'd really have to cure her of that irritating need to have the last word. He said, "Shut up, you obnoxious chit."

            "Overbearing ass."

            "You've said." Slowly he released her wrists, bracing himself against the wall with one hand, stroking his fingers across her cheek with the other. She could flee if she chose - but instead she merely drifted down from her toes, waiting. A long moment passed in silence, each waiting the other out. At last he risked another venture, cupping her cheek in his palm, tilting her face to his. Even in the darkness, those electric blue eyes were vivid, otherworldly. Carefully he brushed his lips over hers. "All right?"

            She nodded slowly; her hands drifted down to settle on his shoulders, tentatively at first, as though she thought she would be rebuffed, and then firmly, her nails kneading like little claws. It was strange; he'd forgotten the lesson he'd meant to teach her. She had called his bluff, something he ought to have expected, but had been utterly unprepared for. And as he would not risk hurting her, instead he was forced to content himself with this careful exploration, this slow discovery that was as much his as hers. So much less than he'd ever experienced with a woman, but infinitely more intimate. This wasn't a preamble that would lead them into his bedroom; even if she permitted a kiss, she'd surely balk at more. But the simple fact that this was going nowhere made it more personal - not a pleasantry to be dispensed with, merely a kiss for its own sake. A new and novel experience for him, to be sure. How was it that a simple kiss could feel like so much more?

            His fingers slid down her throat, caressed her shoulder, then finally cupped the indent of her waist. The silk of the gown was cool and soft beneath his hand, but the heat of her skin warmed it quickly, burning him even through the fabric. She hissed in a breath at the touch, her lids going wide, revealing eyes that were soft and dazed. Her fingernails scraped across the fabric of his shirt, the sound harsh in the silence.

            In too deep, too quickly. Dangerous territory - he'd escaped ambushes that had not posed as much of a threat. He drew back abruptly, biting back a curse. "Go to bed. _Now_ ," he grated.

            She started, shocked by the abrupt shift. For a moment he thought she might argue with him - but at last she slipped beneath his arm, retreating silently from the deck. Moments later, there was the soft slide of the door across the floor.

            He pressed his fingers to his head, collapsing into his chair. There had been a lesson in there somewhere, all right - but he could not be sure which of them had learned it.

            --

            The scent of freshly-brewed coffee roused Balthier from an uneasy slumber. Blearily he opened his eyes to find a mug hovering a few inches from his nose, steam rising from it in white, curling tendrils. He had a crick in his neck, his back ached dreadfully, and his clothing was rumpled from a restless night's sleep - if it could even be classified as such - and that simple white mug was the closest to heaven that he was likely ever to get.

            He reached for it desperately, swallowing half of it down before he risked speech. "Fran, you are an angel."

            She took the seat beside him. "Penelo rose early."

            "Thank the gods," he sighed. "Do you suppose there's time for a bit of rest before we depart? These chairs clearly weren't designed to be slept in."

            She quirked a brow. "She's still abed," she said. "I spoke of her early morning adventure. Onto the deck. With you."

            _Uncomfortable_. He raked a hand through his disordered hair, downing the dregs of his coffee. There'd been not nearly enough of it to facilitate this sort of conversation so soon after waking. "How much did you overhear?"

            "Enough, I suspect." She glanced away. "A viera's senses are far more acute than a hume's."

            He frowned; she'd heard all and done precisely nothing about it. Fran was supposed to be his partner; she'd been forever pulling him out of scrapes, what possible reason could she have to desist _now_?

            "You could have spared me that," he accused.

            "Mmm," she murmured. "I don't know - you seemed to be enjoying yourself."

            He scowled over the empty mug. "You could have spared _her_ that," he amended.

            "She seemed to be enjoying herself as well. I didn't wish to intrude."

            "Perhaps you ought to have," he muttered irritably. He'd never been so off-balance in his life - and Fran was entirely impervious to his discomfort. He suspected she might even be satisfied with it.

            "Regrets?" She lifted the empty mug from his hands, setting it aside. "Not very like you. I've never known you to have them before."

            He hesitated, a shade shy of anger, but certainly more displeased with Fran than he'd found himself in recent memory - perhaps ever. "Damnation, Fran, you ought to have warned me," he said roughly, unaccountably frustrated. "Done something. _Said_ something."

            "I did. Have you forgotten already?"

            He froze, searching his memory. She had said something, just days ago. He had disregarded it as ludicrous, a wild supposition - perhaps he ought not to have been so hasty to dismiss her warning. "You said she could be dangerous to me...what was that intended to mean?"

            She shook her head in disappointment, frowning as if displeased with his lack of understanding. "I had expected more of you. But then, you are only a hume, blind to so much of the world."

            He was hardly blind; he simply could not be expected to decipher her riddles and cryptic remarks. Did she desire him to understand her meaning, she ought to simply come out and say it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily, "Fran, it is too early, and I have had too little sleep and too little coffee for such conundrums. Would you be a dear and put me out of my misery?"

            For a moment, she appeared vaguely sympathetic - not that he expected her to humor him. Fran's version of sympathy was less coddling and more pitying.

            "If I must spell it out for you, the realization itself loses meaning," she chided. "Better that you should discover it for yourself."

            Damned contrary females, the lot of them. "You say I ought to train her up to be a pirate," he reminded her. "Then you say she's dangerous. Which is it?" He knew his voice was sharp, cutting - but he was _done_ with the ambiguous statements, done with the mysteries and the half truths.

            "Either. Both. I suppose it depends on how you choose to interpret it."

            "You said that if I were to make a proper pirate of her, you would be _unnecessary_. How am I to interpret that?" He threw up his hands in aggravation. "Do you _want_ to leave? Is this your way of picking your replacement? Do you wish to dissolve our partnership?"

            "I have no current plans to do so." A brief hesitation. "But I suppose I ought to prepare."

            Feeling oddly bereft, he slouched in his seat. "Why would you do that? You would surrender our partnership so easily?"

            She shook her head, a rueful smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. "Not I, Balthier - _you_." She sighed. "It's happened before; I know it well enough by now. When you find the right partner, all others become superfluous, unnecessary."

            She was not speaking of him, nor even of herself, he realized with a sharp shock.

            "No." It was an instinctive denial. "No. Not her."

            A helpless shrug. "You needn't worry for me - there are always reckless humes in need of guidance. Perhaps I shall find one of them."

            _Surely_ she couldn't believe that her place would be usurped by _Penelo_ , of all people? Surely she didn't expect _him_ to believe it. But she did - he could see it in her face, the vaguely patronizing expression, the gentle mockery. "It's not going to happen," he said fiercely.

            "Too late for such protests," she chastised gently. "Too late by days and deeds. It might've been too late years ago." A slow shake of her head. "I've spent many years running from the destiny that viera hold sacred. Perhaps this is my reminder as well - flee, and destiny only chases after." She fixed him with that knowing look, a touch sad - for him, for his fervent denials of what she had deemed inevitable. "You cannot run forever."


	12. Chapter 12

Reddas has elected to stay behind in Balfonheim rather than join them in Giruvegan. He sensed his presence was tolerated but not altogether accepted, and there were yet matters that would require a day or so to settle within the port city. No one had protested when he announced his intention to remain, and so he had contented himself with waiting in the wings until they had need of him.

            The day had well advanced by the time they reassembled to make the trip. Balthier had managed to get in a few hours of restful sleep in an unoccupied room within Reddas' manor, leaving the _Strahl_ \- and Penelo - in Fran's care in the meantime. When he at last emerged, the party had already gathered on the deck. He stood off to the side of the deck, considering his present situation as everyone else milled about, preparing for departure.

            He was more than a little relieved to note that Penelo had had a bath and had changed her clothing during his absence. He needed no reminders of his ill-considered behavior the night before; there was a distinct difference between seduction and romance, and last night they had been perilously close to the latter - a mistake he couldn't afford.

             And therein lay the problem. He had little doubt that he could cast out the net and ensnare her - last night had proven that much, he suspected. The issue would be avoiding getting caught in his own trap. Fran thought him a lost cause already - a truly troubling prospect. He could not deny that she evoked a myriad of emotions he'd not suffered in years, but he had vanquished them before. It ought to be a simple enough matter to rid himself of them again. After all, she was only one girl, in a world full of beautiful, accomplished, cultured women.

           It didn't signify that she was brave and determined. Or that she was pretty, graceful, and elegant when she chose. She was also stubborn, willful, and proud - and he had always preferred his women softer, less given to argument and challenge...not that he'd stayed with any of them long enough to care, as he'd inevitably grown bored of them. But dull women were easy to leave; he'd never felt so much as a pang of conscience over it, nor anything more than a spark of superficial interest in any of them.

            He'd felt that same superficial spark years ago, when he - along with most of the male population of Ivalice - had coveted her as the mysterious dancer in Rabanastre. That interest had been sparked anew when he'd uncovered her identity. It was only that she had proved so contrary, so secretive, that he had not had the opportunity to grow bored of her; not when every secret revealed only proved the existence of more.

             What a dreadful tangle - he was going to have to get her out of his system the only way he knew how. Eventually, after he'd lured her into his bed and unraveled the threads of mystery she'd woven around her like clothing, he would lose interest just as he always had. He would have to depend upon it, for this unfortunate curiosity could not be allowed to continue.

            He glanced briefly over to where Penelo stood - a mistake. She was standing on her toes, shoving her bag into an overhead compartment for safekeeping, and the tight muscles of her flat stomach stretched with her. That sleek golden skin had been beneath his fingers last eve, separated from his only by the thin silk of her gown. Her back was arched, her head tilted, the wispy ends of her fair hair teasing the small of her back. Those scarlet pants clinging so low and tight on her hips only emphasized her narrow waist - he could probably span it in his hands.  

            At last she succeeded in her efforts, closing the lid of the compartment and settling back down onto flat feet. She turned to find him watching her - her face betrayed nothing, carefully neutral, but she swallowed heavily, fingers jerking upwards to nervously tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.  

            Good. She ought to be unsettled, just as she had unsettled him. That, he could use against her.

            She dropped into her chair, waiting patiently as the rest of them finished up their preparations. Balthier took up his own seat at the helm, Fran in hers beside him.

            As they lifted into the air, Penelo asked, "So we've found it, then? Giruvegan?"

            Fran murmured, "Not...precisely."

            Vaan shifted in his seat, yawning widely. "Larsa said he could only point us in a general direction, to the Feywood. Said he'd overheard Cid mumbling about it, ' _The Feywood reveals the path to the ancient city, Giruvegan, shrouded in mists of time immemorial._ ' Seems sort of sketchy, if you ask me."

            "Lest I once again find myself accused of treachery," Balthier said carefully, "I will once more remind you that this is likely a trap."

            "To what end?" Ashe asked. "He could have killed us in Archades had he the inclination, and he did not."

            "Then he will use us - and you may be sure that whatever lies in wait for us there shall be a good deal more devastating than death, for the whole of Ivalice." He glanced over his shoulder. "Should anyone wish to back out, now would be the time."

            A heavy pall hung over them, silent as a tomb but for the thrum of the _Strahl's_ engines.

            "No takers?" he asked lightly. "Then let us hope that we are made of stronger stuff than that which awaits us in Giruvegan. A madman's plans defy foresight; best to be prepared for anything."

            --

            Hours later, when Balthier would have touched the _Strahl_ down near the edge of the Feywood, Fran reached out to stay his hand and said in an enigmatic tone, " _To the north_."

            The pressure of her hand on his, fierce and heavy, was surprising in its intensity. "You sense something?"

            "The Mists." She was staring into the distance, her eyes jerking from one spot to the next, warily. He saw nothing, but clearly she was disturbed. "They pull at me, thick and heavy. There is danger here, and we charge into it. So much Mist collects, and it carries the weight of the lost years, enshrouds what ought remain forever buried, hidden from mortal eyes." Her voice was low, with a strange musical cadence he'd not heard before, as though she merely echoed words someone else spoke through her.

            "Fran," he said softly, and then, when it failed to elicit a response, " _Fran_."

            She jerked as if he'd struck her, drawing in a deep breath, only just managing to drag her eyes away from the horizon. "My apologies," she said at last. "I forget myself."

            Troubling. Even at such a distance, she could find herself overwhelmed by the Mists. "Would you prefer to stay behind?" he asked.

            For a moment she seemed torn, and he got the sense that she feared what awaited them. At length, she said, "Would that I could - these Mists are ancient and powerful; even from afar they pervade my mind until reasonable thought flees in fear." She took a tremulous breath, and her fingers clenched upon his. "The Mists in other parts of Ivalice are but children in comparison. They are simple, juvenile, chaotic - but without the wherewithal to cause overmuch distress. The Mists of Giruvegan are another beast entirely; they've stewed in their malice, distilled it over thousands of years until it is pure and fine. It is not the stick of a needle; it's the slice of a sword."

            Gooseflesh prickled along his skin, and the hair at the base of his neck stood on end. Fran was badly spooked, more so than he'd ever seen her. "Can you withstand it?" he asked.

            The barest shake of her head. "Not if I lived to be a thousand. Already it sings in my head, a primordial hymn of anguish and ruin. But beneath the song, there is the whisper of the ancients - they _want_ to be found, it has been so long since they have fed on mortal souls, and they are hungry."

            "This was a mistake." Balthier struggled to pull his hand out from beneath hers. "We're leaving - we'll find another way."

            Ashe shot up from her chair. "But we must recover the shard! Dalmasca's fate - the fate of all of Ivalice depends upon it!"

            " _We'll find another way_ ," Balthier snapped. "I'll not risk Fran for a stone, princess, so take your seat and hold your tongue."

            Fran defied his attempts to free his hand, her claws curling into his skin, just short of rending the flesh. "It is too late for that - we are noticed." She shuddered, cringing away as if from a sharp sound, and then at last relaxed, breathing heavily as if she'd run for miles. "They've cleared the path, silenced the masses. Giruvegan is open to us; they await."

            Basch ventured a question. "Who awaits? In a forgotten city, who could possibly await us?"

            Fran whispered, "The Occuria."

            "They're...they're not a myth?" Penelo breathed. "I had thought -"

            "As did we all," Basch said. "The Occuria - not much is known of them; few texts survive of that era, and what legends exist are vague at best...and deeply disturbing."

            Vaan glanced about, studying the bewildered faces around him. "What's an Occuria?"

           Penelo swallowed heavily. "It's...hard to say for certain. But in legends, there are stories of an assembly of gods. They're said to be capricious and callous, plucking the strings of fate, bending mortals to their will - creating and destroying kingdoms and countries as they please." In a low voice, she added, "It's said that it was from the Occuria that the Dynast King Raithwall received the shards of the Sun Cryst."

            "And they want us to meet them?" Vaan asked.

            "So it would seem," Balthier said. After ensuring that Fran had recovered herself, he took back the controls. "One must wonder for what purpose Cid has called us here, and for what reason the Occuria admit us - but I suppose it would be rude to refuse an invitation from gods."

            --

            "Do we go armed?" Penelo asked as the _Strahl_ touched down just at the northern edge of the Feywood, where the brambles and thickets tapered into a smooth, grassy plain bordered by great stone walls that stretched high into the heavy cloud cover, their summit unseen.

            "To the teeth," Basch responded. "We know not what truly awaits us beyond those walls - and the stories of these gods hardly summon confidence in their mercy."

            They collected their things and disembarked the _Strahl_ , the crunch of the grass beneath boots the only sound in the unnatural silence. Even the beasts of the Feywood kept their distance from this place, it seemed. As they approached, a set of gates swung slowly open, the grind of metal on stone grating and harsh. Mists poured out in a cresting wave, glimmering even though no sunlight pressed through the clouds. Fran tensed as the Mist spread, seeping outward as though searching for them.

            "Be wary," she cautioned as the creeping tendrils swarmed them, drifting about their knees in a thick fog. "Mists this dense cast illusions, show you your dearest dreams or your worst nightmares. It preys upon uncertainty; let none linger in your minds. At present it is dormant, merely searching - but do not drop your guard."

            Basch gestured towards the gate. "I assume that is where we are meant to enter. Let us get this done."

            The Mists swirling about Penelo's legs was an opaque white, dense and fluffy as a cloud, but its icy embrace sent a sliver of fear skittering up her spine. She had expected it to fade, but it only continued to grow as they passed the gates, into the city proper.

            "I don't -" she began, but her voice came out a bare squeak. She cast a panicked look around; the Mists surged and swam - not a foot from her, Vaan's face was difficult to make out in the fog that enshrouded them. "I don't think we should be here," she managed.

            There was the heavy grinding again of the gates sweeping steadily closed. Her heart thudded, blood pounded in her ears, then, just as the Mists grew so thick she could not see her hand before her face, chaos erupted - an unnatural, ear-splitting scream.

            " _Fran!_ " Balthier's shout echoed around them, but Penelo could not determine from which direction it had come.

            Still Fran's shrieks rang out, reverberating around them in a growing crescendo until abruptly they died away, and the Mists receded like a tide, leaving a pocket of clarity just large enough to encompass their party.

           Fran lay on her side on the cold stone floor in an ungainly sprawl, unconscious, the color leached from her skin. Penelo dropped to her knees beside her, reaching for her only to be shoved roughly away by Balthier.

            " _Don't touch her_ ," he snapped. "She could kill you as soon as look at you if she wakes with that Mist madness still upon her!"

            "Ashe?" Vaan muttered quizzically. "Where'd...where'd Ashe go?" He turned a circle, searching - but Ashe had vanished from their midst, as if she'd never been - the Mists betrayed not even a hint of her passage.

            Basch searched the Mists that roiled around them, his sword clenched in his hand as if anticipating an attack. " _Princess_!" he bellowed. When that failed to elicit a response from the indifferent ruins, he made a rough sound in his throat. "She's been taken - we must find her!"

            On the ground, Fran stirred, and Balthier shoved Penelo again, behind him, lest Fran prove herself a danger.

            "Fran, are you well?" he asked, his voice low and soothing.

            She clutched her head, wincing as if a thought had been shoved into it without her consent. But her voice was clear, her mind no longer troubled by the Mists. "They've taken her," she gasped. "The Occuria - they need only her, their chosen servant. She'll be returned once they lay before her the task they've set."

            "Do you know where? Can we reach her?" Basch asked fiercely.

            "Beyond time and space; a plane where gods alone reside. Not for us to tread there," she said. "Only the chosen may intrude." With Balthier's assistance, she hauled herself up to a seated position. "Their words are for Ashelia alone, to share as she will."

            "What can we do?" Basch was furious, itching for a fight - too often had he been made helpless, powerless, and he railed against it now, even if inflicted by gods.

            "Nothing, except to wait." Fran's wary gaze darted about; the wall of Mists pressed in upon them, holding them fast in their circle.

            Balthier sighed, his own disappointment clear. "Nothing for it, then," he said. "I suggest we settle in; I can't imagine an audience with gods will be quick."

           Penelo needed no further urging; she settled near Fran, hoping to be a bit of a barrier against the unsettling Mists. Basch, Vaan, and Balthier took up the task as well, forming a circle facing outwards around Fran, who pulled up her knees and rested her cheek atop them, drawing deep, comforting breaths. She had retreated inside herself in an effort to quell the panic that threatened to surface, to create a barrier lest the Mist drag her once more into its clutches.

            The Mists before Penelo's eyes sparkled despite the lack of natural light, moving and shimmering, casting about rainbow bursts of color.

            "Careful," Balthier murmured in a low voice, for her ears alone, though he needn't have bothered with whispering, as the Mists swallowed up the sounds, dampening them. "Remember - they'll summon illusions. Best to leave your mind blank, lest they conjure your thoughts."

            But it was too late; that die had been cast already. The Mists gathered thick, rippling with energy, and pinpricks of color drifted over, forming an image at last, and Penelo felt her breath shudder out and tears prick her eyes. Her hands came up to stifle the cry that rose in her throat.

            Balthier surveyed the image projected - that of a woman of middling years, with kind eyes and a mouth given to smiling often. She had fair hair, done up in an elaborate style, and wore a gown of cornflower blue, sprinkled over with seed pearls. He had a suspicion, but still he asked, "Who is she?"

            "My mother," she confirmed in a whisper choked by emotion. "It's been years since I've seen her face - I haven't even a picture of her."

            "She was beautiful." True, her face bore lines betraying her age, but all the marks of beauty were there, the soft face, the sweetly curving lips, the arching brows, the delicately pointed chin - all echoed in her daughter.

            "She was." Her voice broke. "I know she's not real; it's just an image - but I wish...I wish I could touch her. Embrace her. I keep remembering -" And her eyes squeezed shut, a tear trickled down her cheek as her face twisted in sorrow.

            " _Don't_ ," he interrupted fiercely, horrified, but again the Mists swirled, and the image changed, revealing the steps of the palace in Rabanastre, awash in blood. Penelo had glanced up, startled by his order, and then arrested by the scene playing out before her. Balthier erupted into motion, clamping his hand over her eyes - Vaan had told him what had become of her family, and nothing good could come of her witnessing it a second time. She made a soft sound of protest, her hands coming up to pull at his fingers.

            "You don't need to see this," he whispered.

            Her shoulders lifted and fell, she said in a dull little voice, "I already have." But her fingers fell from his, accepting his gift of sightlessness.

            "I know," he gritted out. "And I am so sorry. But you needn't suffer it again."

            Penelo's mother appeared, shoved to her knees by a pair of Imperial guards. The horror on her face as her gown soaked up the blood coating the steps turned Balthier's stomach. There was the glint of steel in the sun; the slice of a sword through the air, and then her body toppled to the ground, absent her head. Another guard bent to grab a fistful of blonde hair, lifting the detached head for the inspection of the crowd.

            Penelo whispered tightly, "Is it over?"

            "Not just yet, darling." With his free hand, he stroked her hair soothingly. Finally the image wavered, dissolving back into the Mists. He sighed at last, "There, it's done," and removed his hand at last.

            "Thank you," she choked out. She gazed up at him gratefully, her eyes a brilliant blue, washed with tears. "I don't think I could have...I mean...some things are better left in the past." She cast a wary glance over her shoulder to see if Vaan and Basch had witnessed the scene, but both were entranced with visions of their own. She looked away, not wishing to intrude on what might be private memories.

            "If you cannot wipe your thoughts, then keep them focused upon pleasant memories," Balthier advised. Which was easier said than done, for he had so few pleasant memories of his own - and most of those centered around things he'd hardly wish put on display.

            Penelo gasped in shock, and he realized his mistake at once.

            "That's _not_ me," she whispered, coloring furiously. "Well, it _is_...but it's not _coming_ from me!" She rounded on him with a fierce scowl. "You stop that right now!"

            He chanced a glance at the Mists, barely suppressing a groan. _Of course_ his most pleasant thoughts would be of her - as she'd been in that club she'd worked at in Rabanastre. And yet he stared, almost entranced anew. It had been months, after all, since she'd last -

            She thumped his shoulder with the heel of her hand. " _Do you mind?_ " she whispered. Still that fevered blush climbed her cheeks.

            But neither Basch nor Vaan were paying them the least bit of attention - and so to disguise his own discomfiture lest she realize its import, he summoned a licentious smirk and said, "Not at all. By all means, continue." And he turned back to the Mists.

            She covered her face with her hands, shrinking in mortification. "I can't watch this."

            Surprised, he said, "Whyever not? It's only you."

            "No, not me - just an illusion. Someone who never saw the light of day, who was never meant to exist outside of that club." She buried her face in her folded arms. "Let me know when it's over - and for the gods' sake, _don't_ think of it again."

            A difficult request to honor; he doubted he'd be able to summon up anything else. "Have you never wondered what you looked like from someone else's perspective?" he asked. And then, before she could respond, he murmured, "You're really quite beautiful."

            Her head jerked up, expression astonished. The scene wavered, faltered, reorganized itself into the _Strahl's_ dimly lit deck. Penelo, in the gold gown, with her back pressed against the wall. Balthier, looming over her, bending his head.

            "Ah," he said in a low, satisfied voice. "That one's yours, I'm afraid."

            If she blushed any further, she might burst into flame. "This is humiliating," she said in small voice.

            He shrugged. "I did warn you," he said carelessly. But he found himself pleased - she could clear those memories from her thoughts no more easily than he could. He hadn't realized it before, but they looked good together, as if they struck a nice balance. Her head reached his shoulder, her fair coloring complementing his darker features. He hadn't been stretching the truth when he'd called her beautiful; he'd simply not noticed it before, hardly having expected beauty from a little street urchin. His mistake.

            Penelo covered her face with her hands, cringing with mortification. He wondered briefly why this image should upset her more than the last, until abruptly the answer crashed down upon him - this one was not a _memory_ , precisely - if it had been, he'd have seen only himself; the scene would have played out from her perspective. No, this was less memory, more _fantasy_. Interesting, that.

            In the distance, the sharp click of unsteady footfalls on stone resounded. At once the images faded, banished by the impending arrival of an unknown person. As one, they rose, collecting their weapons, ready to fight should the need arise. The Mists thinned, revealing a shadow, a vague outline, and then, finally, Ashe came into view.

            Her eyes were distant, and she clutched a sword - a new one - in her hand.

            Though Fran was reluctant to approach the Mists that whorled still, she neared the edge of their confining circle. "They spoke to you?" she asked.

            Ashe gave a single nod, then stumbled forward towards them. In trembling hands she lifted the blade for their inspection.

            "The Treaty Blade," she whispered. "They've made of me a new Dynast King, to forge the future of Ivalice." She collapsed to her knees. "How long have I been gone?"

            "Minutes," Basch said. "Twenty, give or take. Not long at all."

            "Feels like years," she muttered. "I am so tired - might I rest a while?"

            "Not here." Fran recoiled; the Mists surged, the stone gates ground open once again. "Basch, you must carry her. The Mists seek to drive us out. We are no longer welcome."

            Obligingly, Basch tossed the blade to Vaan, then lifted Ashe into his arms.

            "We make for Balfonheim," Balthier said. "Reddas will want to learn of this."

            The Mists chased them from Giruvegan, halfway to where the _Strahl_ lay waiting in the Feywood. As they climbed her dock, Balthier asked, "Why would Cid send us here to meet the Occuria? And not be here himself?"

            Basch deposited Ashe into a chair. She drew in a shaky breath, collecting herself. "He wants the power, but he lacks the means to use it. The nethicite will not work for him - and the stuff he's made for Vayne is only a poor facsimile in comparison." She shook her head in bemusement. "He thinks to control Ivalice's destiny through me, through the stones I will control once I cut them from the Sun Cryst."

            "That's madness," Balthier countered. "How could he even have known what the Occuria meant to do?"

            Ashe hesitated a moment, but at last, reluctantly, she whispered, "Because he's accompanied by one - the rogue god Venat. Balthier, your father is protected by a god."


	13. Chapter 13

Penelo walked the darkened halls of Reddas' home, finding wandering preferable to sleep. It had been hours since they'd arrived back in Balfonheim, and Ashe had slept much of the way back, rousing only enough to get herself into a bed upon their return. Basch had taken up watch outside her door - Penelo suspected he was reluctant to let her out of his sight after having her snatched from their midst in Giruvegan.

            A strange apprehension pulsed through Penelo's veins, like an electric current. It sizzled, burned - anxiety, trepidation, fear, and anticipation blending into a cocktail of nervous energy she could not overcome. But Reddas' manor was a maze of corridors and wings, sprawling and massive, a prime location for restless wandering - she could probably walk the halls for days without ever encountering another person.

            Unless that person had also wandered from their room in the middle of the night, as she had - and that unlikely scenario turned probable as she turned into a hallway to see a ring of light spilling out from a door therein. There came the soft creak of a chair, the clink of a glass set upon a table. Too late to be a servant, she thought - and too far from the main wing to be Reddas. Not Ashe or Basch, that much was certain. Too quiet to be Vaan, and not quite silent enough to be Fran. That left only one likely trespasser - Balthier.

            For a moment she considered merely turning and wending her way back the way she'd come, for surely if he were of her same mind, he'd not be in the mood for company. But against her better judgment, her traitorous feet lead her down the hall towards the light emanating from the room. She peeked her head through the door frame - just to see, she told herself, if her guess had been correct.

            Through the door, she saw a lamp glowing upon a table, a bottle of spirits resting nearby, and Balthier stretched out in a wingback chair, holding a glass of amber liquor in his hand, inspecting it by the soft glow of the lamplight.

            As she'd thought. Appeased, she turned to leave, content to wander some other wing of the manor.

            "What brings you out at this hour of the night?"

            The soft question jarred her to a halt; she performed a little stutter-step, jerking in surprise. How had he...?

            "You cast a shadow. The light's low, but it's more than enough to give prowlers away. You might as well come in." His voice was deep, even, but there was a thread of something almost dangerous in it that warned her that she ought to flee while she still had the chance.

            A heavy sigh. "I'm hardly in a biting mood," he said. "And I'm half-foxed already."

            That caught her attention; he had always seemed the sort that would prefer to keep his wits about him, not to blunt them with an overabundance of drink. She was seven kinds of a fool for falling victim to her own curiosity, but...she poked her head back through the door, and asked, "Why?"

            Rather than answer, he merely gestured for her to enter. "If you're going to sneak about the place, you might as well join me." He held up the glass for her inspection. "Reddas has admirable taste in spirits, and he's amassed quite the collection. Would you care for something?"

            She considered the offer a moment - outwardly he seemed in an amiable enough temperament. And yet, something pricked at her nerves; he was pretending an ease he did not feel, or she'd not have found him here.

            Still, she crossed the threshold. "Wine, then. A sweet red - Rozarrian, if there's any."

            His brows lifted at the request, and she raised her chin in turn. "I wasn't _always_ an orphan," she reminded him tartly. "There were dinners and parties and court events - and I ate gourmet meals and drank fine wines with them."

            He acknowledged the point with a tip of his glass, then rose to scan the collection buried in the bar set into the bookshelves lining the walls. As he searched, she examined the books, sliding a finger over the spines only to have it come away grey with dust - clearly this part of the manor had seen little use.

            A sound of satisfaction from the other side of the room - he'd found something he'd deemed acceptable. There was the soft pop of the cork being removed, then the smooth sound of liquid pouring into a glass.

            He returned moments later, gesturing to the empty seat across from him with the glass, handing it to her as she moved to sit.

             She swirled her glass, took a hesitant sip. "Oh...this is wonderful," she sighed. "But...not Rozarrian, I think."

            "Archadian," he acknowledged. "The climates are similar; I thought it would suit nicely. For all its faults, Archadia really does produce some excellent wines." He took a sip of his own drink, reclining lazily back in his chair. "What finds you out of bed at this hour?"

            She hesitated. "I don't know - something doesn't sit right. I'm hoping Ashe will be able to shed some light on it when she wakes, but...Cid sent Ashe to claim power bestowed by the gods. Why would he do such a thing?"

            "Ah, a question I've asked often enough myself. His actions have made little sense to me for longer than I care to admit. All these years I've thought him mad, wondering if perhaps I too might one day find myself suffering the same affliction. I suppose he's never been mad at all." His voice took on a bitter cadence, grating and harsh. "He's simply evil. Vile, contemptible - and he dares to patronize me." His lips flattened into a firm line; he drained the rest of his glass, reaching for the bottle on the table to pour himself another. And then he muttered, "We're going to have to kill him."

            She sipped her wine, wondering if it would be wise to question his decision to continue drinking. She supposed she could understand it - he'd probably only just come to that unfortunate conclusion. Probably he'd wanted to hold out hope that there were lesser measures that could be taken. But surely seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle wasn't the best way to deal with the situation. Finally, she ventured a hesitant comment, "If you're already half drunk, is it wise to continue?"

            With his free hand, he massaged his temple, sighing. "Is it in such poor taste to seek a few hours of oblivion?"

            She shook her head slowly. "No, but...it's not going to solve anything, will it?"

            Abruptly, he dropped his head into his hand, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "This, from the chit who's driven me to drink twice already."

            She choked on her wine, coughing to clear her throat. " _Me_?" she croaked in abject disbelief.

            Recovering himself enough to slouch back in his chair, he stretched out his legs and rested his chin on his hand. With his other hand, he absently swirled the liquor in his glass. His lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Mmm. Seems unlikely, does it?"

            The silky tenor of his voice sent a shiver down her spine; she wondered if perhaps she'd been overconfident in accepting his invitation...because she got the sudden feeling that he might be toying with her, like a cat with a mouse - and she was not inclined to play the part of so unfortunate a creature.

            "I don't...I can't imagine why..."

            "Can't you?" He swirled, sipped, lazily draped his arm over the side of the chair. "I find that rather interesting."

            "I don't take your meaning." She obscured her face behind her own glass to disguise her discomfort.

            "Unusual, for someone who has been in your line of work." When her back straightened to ramrod stiffness, he made a swift gesture of placation. "Dear, you really must cease inferring insult when none is intended. You've got a chip on your shoulder the size of a small country."

            "You would, too, if people kept throwing your past in your face," she muttered sulkily.

            "Oh, I don't know. I'm rather partial to your past - it's provided a great deal of pleasant memories." Again, that maddening smirk.

            She froze, staring wide-eyed, bemused. "Why are you telling me this?"

            He rolled his eyes, an exaggerated display of exasperation. "Pet, I am _foxed_. Such a condition often presents with chattiness, or so I am given to understand." He took another sip. "You were wrong."

            She frowned. "I beg your pardon - about what?"

            "Four times." His head dropped back against the chair, he pressed his fingers to his forehead as if a headache had settled there. "It was four times I came to see you - not three. Have you never wondered what might possess a man to return so many times?"

            Unsettled, she curled into her seat, cradling her glass in both hands. Balthier had clearly taken leave of his senses for the evening - so she'd have to keep hers about her. Though she felt heat rising in her cheeks, she managed to keep her voice even. "The novelty, I expect," she said. "Boredom, perhaps. The desire for entertainment."

            He chuckled, amused. "You sweet, innocent child," he said in a vaguely condescending tone. And then, after a brief pause, "I almost offered for you, once."

            She took a gasping breath, shocked. "Why?"

            A patronizing look; he arched a brow.

            Abandoning her earlier resolution, she gulped her wine.

            Disapprovingly, he said, "Have a care, that wine is older than you are." But he took her glass as she held it out and filled it again.

            She gave a shaky laugh as she reclaimed it. "I can't imagine how disappointed you must've been when you found out it was me."

            "Did I say such a thing?" he asked lightly.

            "Everyone expected something more. _Someone_ more, I suppose. So I had assumed," she said with a delicate shrug.

            "As it happens," he replied. "Your assumption was incorrect. I was surprised, of course - but hardly disappointed."

            She released a nervous flutter of laughter. "I don't really think this is a discussion we ought to be having."

            "Oh, but it is." He favored her with a wolfish grin. "You see, that girl in Rabanastre, she was elusive, unattainable. But _you..._ " He tapped his finger on his glass. "You _are_ attainable."

            For a moment she was so still she scarcely breathed. And then she leapt up from her seat, sloshing wine over the rim of her glass. But at the moment, she could hardly be bothered to concern herself with the stain spreading across Reddas' carpet. "I'm not!" she gasped. "I don't know how to came to that ridiculous conclusion -"

            "Simple enough; you kissed me."

            " _You_ kissed _me_!"

            He waved vaguely, as if irritated by her insistence upon what he considered to be mere technicalities. "You kissed me _back_ ," he countered. "That says enough. Do sit down; I'm not going to attack you. I'm fairly harmless at the moment." When she cast him a dubious glance, he scoffed, lifting his glass for her inspection. "This," he said, "is the finest bourbon Reddas owns. It's roughly three times stronger than your wine. Suffice it to say, I won't be moving from this chair anytime soon."

            Warily, she reclaimed her seat. After a moment of hesitation, she asked in a small voice, "Why did you do it?"

            "Kiss you?" he asked. "I wished to satisfy my curiosity." He was intrigued by her scarlet blush, which showed no sign of abating anytime soon.

            She ducked her head, peering into her glass to avoid his eyes. "And did you?"

            "Not remotely." He grinned over his own glass. "Which is why I suggest that we give it another go."

            Her head jerked up, brows winging towards her hairline in surprise. " _Another go_?" she echoed incredulously. "Who's to say that _I'm_ curious -"

            "Darling," he chided gently. "You'd not be here were you not."

            And she had no ready response for that; her lips compressed into a firm line, neither denying nor confirming his supposition. "I should go," she said softly, setting her glass aside.

            "Coward," he accused, not unkindly. "Go, then. Flee if you must."

            Her eyes narrowed on his face. "I'm not a coward - I simply don't see the point."

            "Why must there be a point? It's a simple matter - we're both curious. So you may either retreat to your lonely bed and wonder, or come over here and satisfy the both of us." He set aside his own glass as well and patted his knee, as if to summon her forward.

            She did not move at his command, but her eyes flickered towards the open door.

            "No one else has to know," he said in a soothing tone. "Not to worry; you're safe with me."

            Again, she cast him that disbelieving stare. He fought to suppress a grin, but triumph surged in his veins. She had not yet quit the room  - she was wavering. In deference to her understandable caution, he shrugged and amended, "You are as safe as you wish to be."

             A moment passed in a tense silence; she was taking his measure, probably she suspected he was manipulating her. But then, he really didn't care what she suspected, provided she reached the correct decision.

            At last she rose, unwinding from her seat slowly, gracefully...and his spirits plummeted as she turned away from him, towards the door. He had been so certain that she would comply, and the depth of his disappointment baffled him. To mask it, he turned away - if she could leave so easily, he'd not let her see how it had affected him.

            But the soft sound of the door closing snagged his attention, and he turned, barely concealing his surprise - she _hadn't_ left; she'd merely closed the door to ensure privacy.

            She lifted her chin, daring him to comment. "It's no one's business. Right?"

            He managed a nod, temporarily bereft of the power of speech. Slowly she pulled away from the door, and he stared, astounded, as she crossed the carpeted floor silently, her gait so smooth and steady that she appeared almost to float. And yet she clasped her hands behind her back - he suspected that the gesture was intended to mask her nervousness, as she did tend to fidget when she was uncomfortable.

            She could still turn tail and run - would do, if he rushed her, if he said or did anything to displease her. She was right to be cautious, probably she didn't even know _how_ right she was, and he'd be a fool to inform her. He'd lead her to believe he was harmless, no threat to her, and she was operating on the assumption that simply because he'd imbibed a bit more freely than he ought, he posed no risk, that she could maintain the upper hand.

            Which suited his purposes very well indeed.

            She paused just before him, considering her options. With no small amount of effort, he kept his features schooled into a neutral expression, as if he were simply leisurely awaiting. At last she bent towards him, her hair spilling over her shoulder, a silky blonde lock brushing his chin. He waited, waited, until her lips were mere inches from his own.

            And he murmured, "Sweet, if you're going to do a thing, you might as well do it properly."

            He seized her waist, lifting her off the floor. Off-balance, she tumbled forward into his lap with a cry of surprise, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Her knees landed on either side of his hips, but his hands around her waist kept her locked in place.

            "Wh-what are you doing?" she gasped, straining against his hold. "I didn't agree to this!"

            "No; you thought you could just waltz over, make a half-arsed attempt at a perfunctory peck, and then carry on as you were," he scolded. "It would've been a sound enough plan, except that you forgot to work the variable into your equation - _me_." She was hopelessly ensnared, but that knowledge didn't quell the instinctive struggle. Beneath his fingers, he felt her muscles tense - but she couldn't fight forever, and she would realize it soon enough.

            "You're drunk," she whispered. "You said so."

            "Rather," he agreed amiably. "But perhaps not quite as much as I lead you to believe. Are you quite finished?"

            She gave a last, ineffectual shove at his shoulders, her lower lip thrust out petulantly, before she finally subsided, quiescent at last. "I don't understand what you want from me," she muttered.

            "I shall let you know when I figure it out myself," he said carelessly. "Come now, chin up, it's poor form to sulk when you've been out-maneuvered." With one hand, he brushed her hair away from her face; she didn't flinch but her eyes darted, wary as a cornered animal.

            He rubbed his thumb gently over her cheek, where her soft skin was mottled with a purple and yellow bruise. "I saw him strike you," he said. "I could've killed him for that alone."

            Apparently she was a bloodthirsty thing, and he'd chosen precisely the right thing to say; she softened, her fingers curling on his shoulders. She took a shaky breath, murmured, "I've still got this cut..."

            "Already healing." He brushed his fingers over the injury; she didn't flinch. "You made your decision when you closed that door, pet."

            She shifted, easing just a bit closer - but not quite close enough. A last-ditch protest: "You don't even _like_ me."

            His lips quirked in amusement. "On the contrary, there are times - now, for instance - that I like you very much indeed." His hand closed over the nape of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair, the silky strands cool and soft. She didn't resist as he drew her down, but her breathing hitched. Her sooty lashes swept downward, shielding her eyes. Her breath was warm and sweet, and when her lips at last touched his, he caught a lingering note of the sweet red wine she'd been drinking. Perhaps he'd underestimated his level of intoxication, for his head spun...or perhaps it was simply from the pleasure of her kiss.

            Instinctively, he'd been stroking his fingers along the warm skin of her back, coaxing forth a beguiling shudder. Positioned how she was over his lap, that unconscious movement was dangerous - to both of them. But reasoned thought had fled with the delicate glide of her lips on his, the sharp nails digging crescents into his shoulders even through his shirt. His free hand clenched upon her hip, pressing her down over him.

            She gasped, drawing back slightly as her lids lifted, eyes wide and shocked. He expected her to stiffen in outrage, to push away - but she didn't. With one hand he held her fast, her hips flush with his, with the other, his fingers caressed the nape of her neck, traced her jaw, stroked her cheek. And she trembled, yielded, draped her arms around his neck with a sigh. He knew the precise moment she went under, when her lashes fluttered and her eyes finally closed, when her hands that had held herself away from him finally relaxed their death grip on his shoulders and instead cupped the back of his neck, nails scraping through the soft hair there. He swept his fingers down the smooth slope of her back, relishing the shiver that coursed through her, the sweet gasp she gave into his mouth. Her hair brushed his fingers, so fine and soft, and cool strands teased his chin, fresh and clean and smelling faintly of wildflowers.

            His hands spanned her back, the heat of her skin burning him. He'd wanted to feel it beneath his fingers last night, but he couldn't have anticipated how smooth, how soft she would be. His hands were too rough, too calloused to have any business touching her, but she seemed not to mind - she pressed herself against him, made a soft, kittenish sound in her throat.

            Somehow he had known she would be like this, abandoned, passionate. She had only needed a gentle nudge, a spark, and she would burst into flame, as vibrant as a firework. She kissed like it had been too long since she'd experienced any sort of intimacy, connection - but he supposed it must've been, since she'd set herself apart for so long. That she had discovered it with him was not particularly surprising; they were alike in many ways, secretive, distrustful, determined.

            He was the wiser, more experienced - he ought to have been the one to pull them back from the brink before it was too late. But he was a pirate first and foremost, never content with an inch when he might take a mile. His fingers were light, nimble as they eased free the ties of her top; she noticed nothing amiss as he carefully whisked the fabric away and cast it aside. She rolled her hips, a perfect, enticing motion, and he stifled a groan at the tight press of her body atop his. His fingers smoothed over her back to her waist, sliding up, up, until at last his thumbs teased the impossibly soft flesh just beneath her breasts.

            At last she realized what he had done, drawing away with a shocked inhalation. She simply hadn't anticipated that he'd follow, that his strong hands would hold her immobile. She wasn't prepared for the glide of his lips across her throat, and she reflexively gripped his shoulders. Beneath his lips, he felt the furious pounding of her heartbeat, her throat working as she tried to swallow.

            She whispered, "Balthier, I don't think..."

            But the automatic protest was lost, drawing out into a dazed silence as his thumbs edged higher, trespassing where he knew he ought not - but he was helpless to resist the lure of that pale, perfect skin. Elsewhere, she'd acquired an even, golden tan from hours spent in the sun, but here...here, her flesh was as light as cream. With just a little coaxing, under the lightest of pressure from his fingers, her back arched, her nails raked through his hair, and she trembled as his lips descended on a leisurely path, flirting briefly with her shoulder, her collar bone, the hollow of her throat.

            She was tense, still, her muscles locked in an agony of anticipation for that last devastating kiss, and when it finally came, her head fell back, her arms cradled his head to her breasts, and a soft cry erupted from her throat. That uninhibited response struck fire in him, he pulled her closer, tighter - he was rougher with her than he ought to have been, the pressure of his hands on her might've bruised her delicate flesh. But she was so warm, so yielding; he doubted she understood the dangerous situation she'd unwittingly placed herself in - but then, he hadn't quite expected it himself. He had suspected there was passion in her, but he hadn't anticipated his own reaction to it, hadn't expected it to go beyond a kiss,  hadn't predicted that her ungoverned responses would flash-boil his blood, that she could fell him with only the gentle stroke of her fingertips, the sweetness of her skin beneath his lips.

            She was killing him with those excruciating, magnificent, maddening movements, the subtle sway of her hips - he doubted she was even aware of it, it was instinctual, innate, and each gentle rock sent coherent thought scattering to the furthest reaches of his mind until only one remained. 

            He managed to pry loose one of her hands, capturing it in his to rub her soft palm against his cheek, encouraging her with the gentle scrape of his teeth against her breast - she jerked, gasped, shuddered. He eased her hand down; guided by his, her fingertips traced a delicate route along his throat, down his chest, his abdomen, until at last he settled it between them, over the bulge that stretched his leather pants tight. He had shocked her; he felt it in the sudden tension of her fingers, and he drew his hand away from hers at once - her choice, whether or not to pull away. But she hesitated, unsure, and he used her indecision against her, curving his hand around her nape, drawing her back down for another kiss.

            She melted, uncertainty vanquished. The tip of her tongue touched his, her palm and delicate fingers shaped him through his pants, and he groaned, overwhelmed by her shy overtures. Her touch was torturous, exquisite - unbearably so. Unless he managed to regain control, he was going to embarrass himself. His hands framed her face, softening the blow when he drew away despite her whimper of protest.

            "Come with me," he said, his voice low, husky. "My room is a good distance from the others - no one will know."

            She froze; as if waking from a dream, her eyes opened, dazed. "What...what did you say?" she whispered.

            "Come with me." His hands cupped her slender shoulders, slid down her arms. There was something addictive about the feel of her skin, softer than silk. "Beautiful girl, I know that you want to."

            She ducked her head and covered her mouth to stifle the burst of harsh laughter that escaped. "You don't know the first thing about what I want," she said finally, bitterly. And her arms folded over her breasts. She hadn't cared about her nudity just moments ago; she had arched to his touch, pressed herself into his hands. That she concealed herself now was telling.

            He had blundered this somehow, but exactly how he did not know - he hadn't misread the signs; he _knew_ she wanted him, he'd lured numerous other women to his bed in precisely the same manner. And then he realized what he'd forgotten  in the heat of the moment - _she_ wasn't other women. And she had been propositioned for years, viewed as nothing more than a body to be bought and sold, a tool for others to use and discard at their leisure.

            Probably a kiss had been a new request, innocent and novel - and he had destroyed her enjoyment by pressing for more. He'd reminded her again that he'd been one of those men, once, wanting only one thing from her, her own desires irrelevant, immaterial. He'd made an assumption and insulted her in the process.

             Her shoulders drooped despondently. She brushed her hair back from her face, and shoved at his shoulders; he locked his arms around her waist in response. He didn't want to release her, knew she would flee back to the safety of her room to nurse her wounds in private and he'd have the devil of a time reaching her again.

            "Let go!" she hissed furiously. 

             "No," he bit off. "For the gods' sake, that wasn't intended to be insulting - it's a perfectly reasonable request given the circumstances."

            "Have you any idea how many times I've been propositioned?" she snapped. "How many times I've _refused_ such an offer?"

            "A fair one," he retorted. "It has warped your mind, turned something pleasurable into something sordid. In the past, you may have been propositioned because of your dancing, because of your fame, because of the prestige you would bring, but that hadn't a single bloody thing to do with what I asked you just now."

            Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide and stunned at the unexpected declaration. And she whispered, resentfully, "Why, then?"

            "Because I wanted you," he gritted out. " _You_. Not who you were, wearing a mask in Rabanastre. You. As you are, right now."

            She stared, uncomprehending. Then, abruptly, her lower lip trembled, tears washed her eyes, and he realized that she had not expected that answer - probably she had thought that even he had only acquired an interest because of her past. He recalled her earlier statement, the tinge of shame that had colored her voice when she'd speculated upon his likely disappointment. She had been honestly surprised at his assertion that he hadn't been - because any one of her other admirers would have. Not only had she been coveted purely for her body, but she had come to believe in those crass judgments forced upon her by the patrons of her club, because no one had ever given her reason to believe otherwise.

           And he sighed; he was prepared to deal with her anger - her tears, he could not. They had wrecked him last time. He didn't dare try to comfort her, not while she was on his lap, half unclothed; she'd tried his restraint enough for one evening. Instead he stroked her hair, brushed a kiss across her forehead, and said, in as gentle a tone as he could manage though his throat felt like it had been rubbed with sand, "Go on, then."

            She scrambled off his lap, reaching for her top; he snatched up his discarded drink, downing it in a long swallow. She fumbled in her haste, struggling to thread the ties through grommets behind her back, missing some completely.

            He heard the door open, knew she would flee without so much as a word. But before she could escape, he called her name, and she stilled and turned, as if she were helpless not to obey.

            And he said, "You _will_ come to me. Not tonight, perhaps. But soon. It's inevitable."

            She said nothing, but before she darted out the door, he caught a flicker of fear in her eyes. Not of him, he thought - but because she feared he might be right.


	14. Chapter 14

Penelo ran. Like the coward he'd accused her of being, she fled headlong for the safety of her room, as if by outrunning his prediction she could somehow negate it. But it beat her there nonetheless; it was waiting for her in the silence of her room, resounding in her head, mocking in its certainty. She didn't want to believe it was true - but then, he'd managed to tempt her into something she'd _known_ to be a terrible idea already.

            It was just that she _had_ been curious about him. Well, not _him_ , per se - but more the idea of him as the man she might've ended up married to, had their lives not been uprooted by war and strife. They were both different people now, of course, with drastically different lives, and that prior engagement was irrelevant - he didn't know, and she would never tell him. But how could she not have wondered what her life might've been, what sort of husband he would have made, whether they would even suit?

            She hadn't wanted to like him. She had been rather determined not to; he had represented everything she'd spent the last several years reviling. But he had turned out not to be quite the demon she had thought him, else he wouldn't have bothered to safeguard her self-esteem. Oh, he was arrogant and cunning and manipulative, but not nearly to the depths that he would have believed of him. He had cultivated an image - indeed, he had chastised Reddas for jeopardizing that image - but in private moments he maintained it only haphazardly at best. But simply not being _quite_ as reprehensible as he might've been did not justify her actions.

            He was a poor risk; nothing would come of such a dalliance. But then, she wasn't so foolish as to equate sex with love. She'd seen enough, been propositioned enough in the past to know that love had nothing to do with it whatsoever. She knew better than to expect such a thing from him, anyway.

            And just like that, a curious thought surfaced - she _knew_ better than to expect anything to come of it. There was no point, no goal, no chance of anything meaningful arising. But there didn't _have_ to be. After years of sacrificing for the sake of others, wasn't she entitled to something only for herself? To reach for something not because it was a noble and selfless goal, but simply because it was, for a change, something _she_ wanted? So many years wasted doing the right thing despite the cost to herself. She would never reclaim her old life, and she didn't want it, besides. She was an orphan, a girl of no small amount of infamy, and there were no longer any rules of decorum for her to uphold, no chance for an advantageous marriage. No need to bend to the dictates of propriety, no reason to cling to an innocence that had been defiled years ago, from the moment she'd set foot in that club.

            He had been right; she _had_ been warped by her experiences there. She had felt soiled, dirtied, each and every time. With every proposition, though the offers had grown to astronomical proportions, she had felt worth less and less, as if each of them chipped away at her, stolen a bit of something precious that could never be reclaimed. She had held herself apart, distant, because it was her only protection against the filth that surrounded her.

            She had been pawed at before, and she had always felt filthy afterwards, as if she might well have been dragged through the gutter. But she hadn't felt filthy with him. His hands had been warm, gentle, reverent - like the heat of them could singe away the shame of her tawdry past, erase the memories that lingered like bruises deep beneath the surface of her skin.

            She didn't love him, and he didn't love her - but at least he was honest. He held her in enough esteem to want her without the mask, without the prestige attached to the famous body. Just her, as she was. That had never happened before. No one had _ever_ wanted just her.

           At least with him, she would know what she was getting into. He'd never pretended to be any better than he was. And she had believed him when he'd said that his proposition had had nothing to do with her past; he had had ample opportunity to shame her for it, and instead he'd only ever sought to shield her from the consequences - even when she'd been bound and determined to seek them out.

            He'd said it was inevitable. Maybe he was right. And maybe it wasn't the terrible thing she'd initially believed it to be. Maybe she _would_ seek him out after all. Maybe she owed it to herself to snatch up happiness and pleasure where she could find it.

            But if she did, it would be on _her_ terms - not his.

            --

            Balthier would never be entirely sure how he'd made it back to his room without cracking open his skull along the way. Nonetheless, he had awoken late into the morning with the devil of a headache, still halfway in the grips of fevered dreams that didn't bear consideration in the light of day, having somehow managed to partially disrobe and sprawl out haphazardly across the covers.

            He seemed to have made it out of his vest and his shirt, but had lost interest thereafter - or otherwise perhaps the buttons of his pants had become too complicated for his hands, clumsy from drink, to be able to manage. His mouth was dry, yet another unfortunate side effect of too much liquor.

            At least he could take comfort in the fact that the room he'd chosen was in a newer section of the house, equipped with running water, so he would not need to call for servants and await the buckets of hot water they would otherwise have to lug in. He'd not have wanted anyone to see him in this condition, regardless - he'd spent years cultivating his image, and he'd not have it dismantled in one fell swoop by revealing the after effects of a night spent wallowing in drink.

            Still, it had not been _entirely_ unpleasant - there had, after all, been Penelo's scintillating company. He remembered the slight weight of her body settled over his lap, her cool fingers sliding through his hair, the delicate pressure of her lips - all of which had been ample enough fodder for his shameless mind to conjure up dark, delectable dreams, tormenting him even in his sleeping hours. He remembered, too, that she had taken exception to his offer to accompany him to his room, which he could now admit was a sound decision, for it was unlikely that he'd have been in any condition to do her justice should she have accepted.

            But he was sober now, and in complete control of his faculties. He'd been a bit more candid than he ought to have been last night, freer with his words as alcohol was wont to encourage. He suspected he'd frightened her at least a little - but then, in her days as a dancer, she had maintained a distance from the patrons, and he thought perhaps there was a chance she might not have had such an experience before, had succumbed so easily due to her inexperience. Just as easily, he dismissed the thought - she had hesitated to touch him intimately, but only briefly, and then her fingers had become bold, eagerly exploring him through his leather pants. His actions had not shocked her; she had merely been thrown by what they represented - a swift descent into hedonistic pleasure when all she had expected was a simple kiss.

            Well. She knew better, now. And she had fled, terrified by the surety he had espoused  in her surrender. She'd have her guard up once again, that prickly armor she wore around herself to ward others away. But it wouldn't hold - he knew now that she could be tempted into a fall, and he was more than up to the challenge.

            --

            He strolled into the drawing room, well past the time he ought to have been there. It had gone past noon, and everyone had already gathered - even Penelo, who sat with her legs draped over the arm of the sofa, gazing sullenly out the window.

            "Good of you to join us," Basch said acidly. "Though we could have done without the delay."

             Balthier was not particularly aggrieved by Basch's ill-humor. "We're in no particular hurry."

            "Are you mad? _Your father_ -"

            "Whatever my father plans depends upon her highness," Balthier responded, nodding to indicate Ashe. "Therefore, _he_ awaits _our_ leisure. We'd be remiss did we not take this opportunity to regroup and plan our attack. Only fools would rush in blindly."

            His response was met with stony silence, but Basch's jaw clenched - until Ashe said at last, "Basch, you know he is right." To Balthier, she said, "We have been waiting upon you for hours to discuss Giruvegan. Patience has grown short in supply."

            A far cry from the imperious admonishment she might once have given; thus he humored her by sinking into a chair, and said, "My apologies. Please, you may begin."

            Ashe drew a steadying breath. "The Occuria summoned me to their council, far removed from Ivalice. I know not where, precisely. They charged me with a task - to cut of the Sun Cryst my own shards, to fulfill their directives in the determination of Ivalice's fate."

            "So we are to fight the power of the existing shards with new?" Reddas inquired.

            "Not...precisely." Ashe rubbed her temples, as if recalling the information required pained her. "The shards in Archadia's possession, they were meant only for the Dynast King, Raithwall. It is why they have long been sealed away; their power is unstable, unpredictable. The new shards would have their power a hundredfold, but pure and untainted by the years and unworthy hands."

            "These new shards, then...they could combat the ones lost to us," Basch suggested pensively.

            Ashe fixed him with a sharp look. "They could raze entire kingdoms to ashes and rubble in the blink of an eye," she said. "Archadia could be obliterated, as if it had never existed at all." And then she sighed heavily. "And that's what they want. They charge me with this power, this duty to surrender the fate of Ivalice to their will. Over thousands of years, their power has waned, the shards have been secreted away, hidden. They are losing their control, and they want it back within their grasp."

            "The Dynast King," Penelo murmured. "Not merely a conqueror, then -"

            "No. A puppet of the gods, a tool for their use. Seizing power and kingdoms where the gods will, untouchable with their protection." Ashe made a disgusted sound in her throat. "Raithwall was content to do their bidding in exchange for the power they offered; they have chosen me for the blood that runs through my veins."

            "You are Dynast King, now - you can use the shards as you see fit. They can serve our cause and then be hidden away as were the others," Balthier suggested.

            "I would that it were so simple," Ashe sighed. "If I cut the shards, there would always be the temptation to use them. And their power corrupts, leaches the good intentions from the heart to better enslave you to the whims of the gods. I would trust no one with this power - not even myself."

            Vaan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he said, "Then...just don't cut the shards."

            Ashe indicated the Treaty Blade laid out on the table before them. "This blade, it is the only thing that will pierce the Sun Cryst. It cannot merely be hidden away - secrets have a way of coming out. And if I do not use it, the Occuria may revoke their blessing - and the blade with it - to choose another successor. There are too many with weak hearts and weaker wills. Would you trust another to refuse such a gift, such terrible power?"

            A fair question. A profound silence hung over the room - it was one thing to plot against an invading kingdom, and quite another to buck the will of gods.

            "There is still the matter of the rogue god, Venat," Ashe said. "Venat allies with Cid, and seeks to overthrow the Occuria and their hold over the fate of Ivalice - but by bestowing the power of the nethicite to the masses. Can you imagine the chaos?"

            The entire world would be thrust into war, the destruction beyond comprehension. Madness, pure and simple.

            "So Cid would use you to achieve that end - and ensure the destruction of Ivalice in the process," Reddas said.

            Ashe nodded gravely. "And with Venat at his side, with all the knowledge of the Occuria, he knows where to await us. He is doubtless planning upon our arrival."

            "Where, then?" Basch asked. "Where are we to meet him?"

            Ashe turned her head briefly, gazing out the window past the endless blue sea stretching inexorably toward the horizon. "Past the Ridorana Cataract," she murmured. "In the Pharos Lighthouse. At the precipice, the Sun Cryst lies dormant, awaiting the chosen Dynast King."

            "What a wretched predicament," Balthier muttered. "Cut the shards and win the war - but lose to the twisted machinations of gods, or leave the stone and lose regardless to the whims of another puppet of the gods."

            "There's no help for it - we must go," Basch said. "Cid cannot be left to his own devices. He's wrought enough damage. He cannot be allowed to live, not when he is in allegiance with Venat." And he looked to Balthier, as if expecting him to object.

            "No arguments from this quarter," Balthier said. "Any relationship we shared was severed long ago. As it happens, I agree - he'll stop at nothing to pursue his ends; therefore we must stop at nothing to keep him from achieving them."

            Reddas rose from his chair. "To cross the Cataract, we shall have need of a skystone. It is fortunate, then, that I have one in my possession. I shall give the order to have it installed, but it may be some days before we may leave."

            Ashe rose as well, knitting her fingers before her. "Reddas, we have relied upon you too much as it is. You have obligations here; you need not accompany us."

            He stared intently at her for a moment, as though he were trying to determine whether her remark was in earnest or if she simply did not care for his company. Finally, he said, "If it is your wish I should remain behind, I will honor it. It is true that I had not intended to leave Balfonheim unprotected so soon - but I can be an asset to your cause. I have been across the Cataract, to the Pharos. Can any of you say the same?"

            Of course they had not - skystones were  rare enough even amongst pirates. Skystones powerful enough to allow passage over the Cataract rarer still. That Reddas had acquired one was a stroke of excellent luck indeed; that he would give it over to them without question was all the more incredible. Though Ashe likely still held Reddas in some suspicion, she could hardly doubt his willingness to aid their cause.

            "You've been to the Pharos? Have you seen the Sun Cryst?" she inquired.

            "I have. It is dormant, as you say, embedded permanently into the stones that comprise the Pharos - but I can guide you there. I remember the path."

            "Then we will be glad of your assistance." It didn't come out entirely placidly, hardly the smooth, deliberate reply of a queen who expected subservience. Rather, it was the careful response of a woman who could not afford to turn her nose up at such an offer, regardless of the quarters from which it came. It might have pained her, but she had come to the conclusion that some things were greater than her desire for revenge, retribution - that her suffering was insignificant in comparison to the suffering that might be averted should they succeed. The noble queen had learned that there were causes to which even she might bow her head and quell her pride.

            "It will be done, then - I shall order the preparations be done at once. The _Strahl_ will require a fair bit of modification, but my men are thorough. We will reach the Pharos safely - that, I can assure you. Whether we leave it safely is another matter entirely." Reddas hesitated, then addressed them as a whole. "It is possible - probable, even - that we will fail. Lest we falter at the crucial moment, I suggest you take this time to make your peace with death, for that is what we face."

            Of course, they had known they faced nigh-insurmountable odds. But that had been when they had believed their opponent was merely the power-hungry Emperor Vayne, who, if vanquished, would be succeeded by Larsa - and Larsa would surely bring about a swift end to the war. Vayne was only one man; even protected as he was, he was infinitely more vulnerable than _gods_.

            "We have come this far already," Ashe said in a clipped tone, as if Reddas' remark had offended her. "There have been many opportunities to turn back, where any one of us might've slipped off quietly into the night, or quailed beneath such a burden. And yet we have persevered, despite the obstacles cast into our path. I _must_ believe we will continue on as we have. And so I would give your warning back to you and ask if you are prepared for the same."

            A moment passed in utter silence but for the muted sound of waves breaking along the rocky shore. At last, Reddas laughed; a low, self-deprecating sound. "Princess, my die was cast when I turned a blind eye to the atrocities committed in the name of expanding the Archadian Empire, when I burned a kingdom to ashes. I have been prepared for death for years."

            --

            It had been some hours since the household had retired for the evening. Night had long since settled like a shroud over Balfonheim, a thick layer of cloud cover pressing down upon the city, muting the nighttime noises to reverential silence.

             Supper had been a solemn affair. It wasn't that the meal itself had fallen flat; it was simply that the diners themselves had shown a marked reluctance towards polite conversation. They had gone their separate ways shortly after the uncomfortable meal had concluded, disinclined to voice any private concerns they might've had.

            And so Balthier, dissatisfied with the idea of remaining in his own room until morning, had somehow found himself back in that disused study where Penelo had come upon him the night before. He did not expect that she would come round again, but...he poured a glass of sweet wine, just in case.

            The imposing grandfather clock against the far wall chimed one, then two. He considered pouring himself a glass of brandy, or perhaps port, but decided against it and grabbed a book from the shelf instead. He'd done enough damage by blotting his senses with alcohol the night before; he could not afford the sloppiness that came with it.

            The book was an overblown and flowery history of the Rozarrian Empire; monumentally boring and stuffy. If nothing else, it would put him to sleep and therefore out of his misery. So he dragged an ottoman close, stretched out his legs upon it, and settled in.

            He'd read the same passage three times, the words blurring before his eyes, when a sound from the corridor snapped him to instant alertness. Another sound, the soft pad of bare feet across the polished wooden floor. He closed the book, set it on the table to his right, caught up the glass of wine that had spent the better part of two hours aerating, because unless he missed his guess...

            Penelo. She appeared in the doorway, her lips pursed, as if he had issued a summons she had been compelled to obey rather than come of her own accord. Though he presented no immediate threat, given that he was still seated, she hovered just beyond the threshold as if she might need to flee at any moment. And she might truly believe that, given how he had behaved with her just last night. But if she were so reticent, why had she come seeking him out?

            Perhaps it wasn't _him_ she feared - perhaps her annoyance was with herself instead, for failing to resist the lure. 

            And yet, he had not called her, he had offered no encouragement, given no invitation. She had been the one to seek him out.

            Wordlessly, he held out the glass. For a moment she stood motionless, undecided. But he made no move to rise, gave no indication that he cared overly much whether or not she chose to take it, because ultimately the choice was hers. Finally, she stepped resolutely over the threshold, crossing the room in sure, quick strides to take the glass from his hand.

            She settled onto the sofa, curling both hands around her glass. "How did you know?" she asked.

            He shrugged, nonchalant. "I didn't. But I find that being prepared for any eventuality is a worthy enterprise."

            She considered that and sipped at her wine. The one he'd chosen clearly appealed to her; her eyes closed as she savored it with a tiny hum of contentment.

            "Bhujerban," he said. "Perhaps a bit dryer than you would prefer, but I thought it would suit nicely."

            "It's quite nice," she replied, taking note that his hands were empty, and no glass rested anywhere nearby. "Nothing for yourself?"

            He chuckled. "I cost Reddas a fortune in bourbon last night. It would hardly be respectful of me to repeat such an offense."

            The corners of her lips tilted up in amusement. She passed a hand over her mouth as if to wipe the smirk off her face. "Please. You suffered the consequences of over imbibing. You probably are still."

            He might still be nursing a bit of a headache, and his stomach might be the tiniest bit queasy - but he'd not admit to her that weakness. "I was thoughtful enough to prepare a drink for you merely on the happenstance that you cared to join me, and in return you cast such aspersions on me," he chided.

            Cynically, she snorted. "You were hoping I would change my mind."

            He hadn't expected her to bring it out in the open, hadn't even intended upon bringing it up himself, but he found himself fascinated with her candor. He rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and cradled his chin in his palm. "Have you?" he inquired.

            She ran the pad of her index finger around the rim of her glass, smiled. "No," she said.

            Disappointment swelled. He hadn't expected...but he _had_ hoped. Clearly in vain.

            "At least, not _yet_ ," she clarified.

            Despite his astonishment, he managed to keep his face carefully neutral. "Last night, I was under the impression that your answer had been a resounding 'no,'" he said. "Might I ask what has changed to sway you from that?"

            She leveled an arch look at him; the pressure of her finger upon the rim of the glass coaxed a high-pitched musical tone from the crystal, pure and sweet. "Do you really care?" she asked, finally.

            He did. He _actually_ did. Not that he _required_ an answer, per se - but that the workings of her mind were intriguing, baffling, confusing. He cared not because the answer itself was important, but because she was interesting, and he wanted to understand her better.

            Instead, he said, "I suppose it doesn't matter."

            And she nodded, as if she had expected such a response. She had finished only half of her wine, but she set it aside anyway, and made to rise. "It's late. I don't fare well on little sleep."

            "Shall I wait for you tomorrow night, then, should the _Strahl's_ modifications not be completed?" he asked.

            "If you like." It was a bland, noncommittal response. "But I make no promises, so don't set stock in it."

            Against his will, he found himself grinning. She was amusing like this, though she didn't intend to be; he could almost believe that she was truly as indifferent as she sounded - except that her voice had quavered a bit there at the end. She was trying, then, to pretend at a sophistication she lacked in order to protect herself. He admired her bravado.

            He inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I shall pour a glass for you, then...just in case."

            The smooth tenor of his voice had her golden brows arching in surprise, uncertainty - as if she'd suddenly realized that he might not be as easily managed as she had expected. But she masked it quickly enough, her delicate features setting to that perfect, placid neutrality. And then she slipped silently out the door and was gone.

           


	15. Chapter 15

Balthier sighed, sprawled out in an ungainly slump in his chair. He was unused to finding his wishes thwarted, and yet Penelo continued to do so at every possible turn. Truth to tell, he had somewhat expected her assertion that she might not appear to be mere prevarication on her part, and yet last night she had _not_ shown up after all. That had been disappointing, to say the least, given that he had wasted the better part of six hours in waiting. Actually, it was _appalling_ \- he had never been much enamored with the thought of waiting on a woman. _They_ came when _he_ called; it was the way of things. At least, it always had been before.

            And yet, here he was, one night later, waiting yet again on a contrary chit who might not even deign to appear. But he'd had the foresight, at least, to get in a bit of rest in the afternoon, the better to await her in the early hours of the morning. If she did happen to put in an appearance, he would be well-rested, awake, and alert.

            The glass of wine he'd poured rested on the table at his side, mocking him. It might've been presumptuous of him, as she'd not arrived to drink what he'd poured last night, but he had enjoyed the pleasure on her face as she'd sipped her wine the previous nights, had enjoyed the task of choosing from Reddas' vast collection which vintage would best suit her.

            Not that he ought to have cared overly much - it was just that it had been so long since he had last taken pleasure in something so simple as a glass of wine; her enjoyment was a novelty, as though he could experience that simple innocence vicariously through her.

            "Reddas says that we can leave tomorrow."

            He jerked, recovered from his awkward position, craned his head around. She'd gotten the drop on him this time, his consuming thoughts blotting out any noise she might've made in her entry. There was no hesitance in her this time; she crossed the floor swiftly, snatching up the wine he'd poured for her and drinking down a healthy swallow so quickly she could not have even tasted it.

            He said, rather stupidly, "What?"

            "Your airship," she said, when she'd come up for a breath. "The _Strahl_ ; the modifications are nearly complete. He says we'll be able to leave in the early afternoon at the latest."

            "Ahh, I see." It had been a few days - but then, the _Strahl_ was a prototype, the only one of her kind. It would have taken even experienced mechanics a good deal of time to map her configuration, plan the necessary modifications. He was merely surprised that they were so quickly nearing completion.

            She gave a brisk nod, took another swig of her wine.

            "Are you frightened, then?" he asked. He had risked death often enough in his life, but those occasions had been more hazards of his profession rather than this; the carefully orchestrated, seemingly-futile attack which would almost certainly result in it. And she...she had escaped death too often to not feel some manner of trepidation over seeking it out. Everyone's luck ran out eventually.

            She shook her head, hesitated, and finally nodded. "I'm not afraid of death," she said shakily. "I'm afraid of _dying_." A hysterical gurgle of laughter; her fingers tightened around her glass, knuckles whitening. "Does that make me a coward, do you think?"

            He shook his head, expression grave. "I think you'd be a fool not to be frightened."

            "But some things are worth dying for, aren't they?" She half-turned, cast him a hopeful glace, as if she could be brave if only he might give her some reason to do so. "Even if there's only half a chance, a quarter even..."

            There was less even than that, and they both knew it. Whatever she saw in his face did not reassure her; she averted her gaze, staring down into her glass as if it might give her the answer she sought.

            She murmured, "I should have died before now, anyway. A hundred times before, I should have died. I suppose I'm lucky to have made it this long."

            "So fatalistic," he chided. "Do you wish to back out, then? No one could blame you; it's not your war, it's not your fight. No one could ask more of you than you've already given."

           "No; I have to see this through to the end. I don't _want_ to - but I _have_ to. I have nothing to go back to, no family, no life to return to - there is nothing waiting for me. I won't be remembered. If I die, nothing will have been lost. But there's everything to be gained - for someone else. So why not me?" She spoke calmly, but she had begun to pace, restless, the tension in her shoulders drawing her muscles tight.

            Though weighty thoughts of impending death ought to have been enough to put anyone into this state - and worse - he suspected it was not the sole issue that distracted her. He wondered what had changed, why she was sharing her concerns so openly with him. Vaan was her boon companion; surely she'd rather entrust her cares to _him_?

            But since she was so inclined to be chatty, he might as well indulge his curiosity. He leaned forward, rested his forearms on his knees, and asked, "Is something else on your mind, pet?"

            She tripped, caught herself before she fell, and turned on him with wide eyes. And he watched, bemused, as a scarlet blush crept into her cheeks. She blushed to the roots of her hair, then turned her back on him and drank down the last of her wine.

            "I'm eighteen today," she said in a low voice, though she remained facing away from him. "And I thought, really, for the first time, that I might not see another year. I might not see another _day_. But I've wasted so many years doing what's right and necessary - for once I want to do something selfish. Just once, because there might never come another chance. Is it okay to want to be selfish this once?"

            His brows lifted in surprise. "If you're saying what I think you are, then, yes. Absolutely yes. Be selfish."

            She set her empty glass down on a table in a jerky motion, then whirled and headed swiftly to the door, where she paused to glance over her shoulder at him.

            "I chose a different room," she said in a rush. "Far away from the others, where no one can hear." She tilted her head to the side, her hair spilling over her shoulder in a glorious tumble of glossy locks. "Are you coming?"

            ---

            Balthier closed the door silently behind him. This room was bigger than the one she'd vacated; in the newer section of the house, with its own washroom and presumably running water as well. A small fire glowed in the hearth, bathing the room in muted light. The covers on the bed had been turned down. An intimate setting; he had the feeling she'd been in here for some time before she'd finally decided to come to him.

            She was fiddling with a lamp near the bed, turning it to its lowest setting. He suspected she was uneasy, partaking in rituals that would calm her nerves. He took a seat at the foot of the bed, watching her flit around.

            "What changed your mind, pet?"

            A wary glance over her shoulder; her brows drew together. "I told you," she said.

            "About _me_ ," he said. "You could have gone to any tavern and had your choice of companions for the night. But you didn't."

            "Oh." A brief hesitation. Her fingers curled around a hairbrush; she drew the bristles through her hair in long, steadying motions, as if she needed to keep her hands busy. "I suppose...for a change, it was nice to be seen."

            "Darling, you're not invisible."

            A brief, wry smile. She laid the brush down, plucked at the ties of her top. "I am, for the most part," she said. "I'm a placeholder; I fill a role. Sister to the other orphans, provider, best friend." A quick glance over her shoulder. "Dancer. You know, that sort of thing. Really, I might as well be furniture for all anybody really cares." The fabric loosened, fell away. Her skin shone, her hair caught and held the dim lamplight, sparkling as if lit from within.

            "I can't imagine that's true." His voice sounded odd even to him, rough, his throat gone dry.

            "It is. I'm not resentful about it - but I don't want to be only a footnote in someone else's narrative. And you - you _saw_ me. You didn't care about my past, the good or the bad." She was shedding clothing while she spoke, calmly, as if it were routine, and he saw the memory in her movements, the subtle sway of her hips, the elegant arch of her back. The fluid grace she exuded, as if falling back on the things she'd learned as a dancer were comforting.

            "The past is who you've been, not who you are. Perhaps I understand that better than most." He couldn't tear his gaze away from her; those bewitching scarlet pants had ties at the sides, ties she threaded her fingers through and tugged loose. She shimmied out of them, leaving the fabric to pool on the floor at her feet.

            His response had pleased her; she wore that siren smile, unashamed of her nakedness as she crossed the floor. With the fire crackling behind her, her hair glowed, haloing her in its light. He was barely breathing, awaiting her leisure; she was near enough that he could reach out and touch her, but this was _her_ seduction and he wanted to see what she would make of it.

            She reached out, settled her hands on his shoulders for balance, then climbed into his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. The heat of her skin scorched him even through his clothing; she lifted her hands, cupped his face, and breathed, "That. That's why I changed my mind."

            And she kissed him, her lips soft and sweet, the delicate brush of a butterfly's wings. She had made up her mind; she would not be frightened away - so he closed his arms around her, pressing her tightly to his chest, the fingers of one hand tunneling into her hair, grabbing a handful of it, the pressure of his lips on hers insistent, hungry. But she yielded, matching his ardor with a sigh.

            Her delicate fingers trailed down his throat, patiently working the togs of his vest, and he was obliged to release her long enough for her to shove it off of him. She moved on to the buttons of his shirt, but her pace was so slow and deliberate - he hadn't the patience for it. He attacked them himself, shoving buttons through holes as quickly as he could manage, yanking his arms out of the starched white linen, thrusting it off and away. And then her bare skin was pressed to his and the contact sizzled through him.

            He turned them, pressing her back upon the covers, his hips wedged between her thighs, and she gasped at the contact, her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him down to her. But he had plans of his own; he would not be lead - instead he feathered a string of kisses from her cheek to her delicately pointed chin. She made a soft sound of satisfaction in her throat, turned her head to the side to permit him better access. Beneath him, she writhed, her hips arching gently against his.

            He barely bit back a groan; somehow, with her small hands and dainty fingers, she had wrested control from him. He needed to be inside her - he had never felt this degree of desperation. Before, this had always been a pleasant diversion, or an itch to be scratched; never a necessity. But now he burned, shuddering at the gentle caress of her fingertips as she stroked them down the nape of his neck, exploring the muscles that strained in his back, the taut pull of sinew and tendon beneath his skin.

            A sweet sigh escaped her as his teeth scraped across her shoulder, dipped low over her collarbone. His hands slipped beneath her, finding the small of her back, the indent of her waist, molding her against him, the perfect cradle of her hips flush against his own.

            "Balthier," she murmured, her voice low and warm. "I think you might be overdressed." Her fingers slid over his overheated skin, slipping beneath the waistband of his leather pants. He smothered a groan against her breast, knew his hands were gripping her too tightly but couldn't summon the self-control to prevent it. She wasn't particularly aggrieved by his roughness; her fingers traipsed over his sides, reached the front closure of his pants, nimbly worked the fastenings.

            He didn't want to move, not now, not until he could manage some degree of restraint, or he'd take her in a feverish frenzy, embarrass himself with his own impatience. But she was already shoving his pants over his hip - too late for regrets, too late for him to do anything other than desperately hope that he could hold out long enough for her to find release. Somehow, some way, he scrounged up the strength to relax his grip, thrust himself away just long enough to kick off his boots and yank his pants off.

            And she - she reclined gracefully, soft and tranquil, her fair hair fanned over the pillows like stray moonbeams. If she had made some attempt to cover herself, if she had displayed even the tiniest bit of nerves or bashfulness he might have been able to rein himself in - but she didn't. Instead she boldly gazed up at him, proud, shameless, glorious.

            He fell upon her like a starving animal; she shifted to embrace him, accommodate his hips between the lee of her legs, gasped at the contact of their bare flesh. Lips pressed to her throat, he clutched her thighs, forcing them wider. She was hot, wet - but she made a strangled sound as if the pressure of his entry had hurt her. And despite her readiness, she was so tight, her body fighting the invasion of his.

            Another helpless sound of distress, and realization slammed into him with the shock of a lightning strike - despite her brazenness, she'd never done this before. Dear gods - and he'd taken no care with her, had leapt upon her like a barbarian.

            Discomfort had flared into pain, the eagerness of moments before vanquished, extinguished as if it had never existed at all - and she was angry, furious that she'd been denied the pleasure he'd promised. She shoved at his shoulders, glaring spitefully, wriggling in a futile effort to dislodge him. He gritted his teeth against her ill-considered shifting, struggling for control over his intemperate body. Had she had any idea what her restless movements were affecting, she might've given pause, but all he could manage was a few breathless nonsensical words that ran together: _please no sweet wait a moment gods just don't move._ To his everlasting gratitude, she stilled at last, allowing him to take a few ragged breaths.

            "Damn you, Balthier, that _hurt_ ," she hissed furiously, but her white teeth tugged at her lower lip, her eyes glinted with unshed tears, and her nails dug tiny crescents into his skin. Braced on one forearm, he stroked her hair away from her face and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. 

            "I was under the impression that you'd done this before," he murmured when he trusted himself enough to speak. "Forgive me - I'd have spared you the pain were it possible."

            Her little claws extricated themselves from his shoulder long enough to dash away the forming tears, but by her mulish expression he guessed that his apology had not mollified her in the least.

            "For the gods' sake, I was a dancer, not a whore," she bit off. Her head fell back against the pillows, wincing as even the slight movement aggravated aching muscles. "I can't believe people _enjoy_ this. I just can't."

            He masked his amusement with a cough - she'd never forgive him if he laughed at her now. "It's generally a bit more, ah, pleasant under better circumstances."

            "I should hope so, because it's certainly _un_ pleasant now." Her obstinate expression dissolved into watery resolve. She sniffled, and the pitiful little sound wrenched his heart. "Are we done?" she asked plaintively. This had not been at all what she had expected, but even though the piercing pain had faded, she ached inside, felt bruised, stretched, invaded. There wasn't _room_ enough for him inside her body, and yet he'd forged a place within her anyway, and she was left struggling to contain him.

            He slid his fingers into her hair, brushed his thumb over her cheek, and bent to nuzzle the sensitive place behind her ear. "Poor darling," he murmured. "Does it hurt so very much?"

            The teasing brush of his lips at her ear provoked a shiver. He felt it run through her, heard her sharp intake of breath at the sensation, felt her fingers grip his shoulders as he subtly shifted, changing the angle, and for just a moment her thighs squeezed him, embraced him rather than repelled him.

            "Oh," she breathed on a shaky sigh. "That's...tolerable."

            She could not see him smile, and for that he was profoundly grateful. "Merely tolerable?" he asked, brushing a string of soft kisses along her throat. "Or potentially enjoyable?"

            "I haven't decided yet," she responded primly, but her fingertips were tracing delicate whorls on his back - she was considering, experiencing, and, at least, not utterly rejecting what he offered. He cupped her hip in one hand, sliding it beneath her thigh to ease her leg around his waist.

            "Like this, sweet," he murmured, gently adjusting her limbs, relishing the gasping sounds she made as he carefully shifted, giving her a bit of his weight. His clever fingers stroked along the smooth skin of her inner thighs, and when they finally brushed the petal-soft flesh he'd been searching out, she trembled and yielded, and the tension of remembered pain that gripped her evaporated. At once, the delicate flesh that had so staunchly resisted his invasion accepted him, and she squeaked in surprise as his downward plunge was at last completed.

            "You tricked me," she accused, but her color was high and she writhed under the sweet torment his fingers invoked. Inside, her velvety inner muscles embraced him, welcomed him. Her hands clenched on his shoulders, bracing herself against the cresting waves of pleasure. "Balthier, I can't think when you're doing that," she whispered helplessly. "You have to stop."

            "Darling, you're not supposed to be thinking," he soothed. "Just relax."

            "How could I possibly?" she gasped. And gasped again, her body caught in a sinuous arch, trembling and taut. Deep within her, he felt the silky contractions that heralded her release with a primal satisfaction, caught her desperate, broken cry before it could escape. He clutched great handfuls of twisted sheets, steeling himself against the press of her soft breasts against his chest, the inciting rake of her nails through his hair, the luxuriant pulse of her enveloping him in her lush little body.

            He hadn't felt such a lack of control in his entire adult life. Somehow, she stripped away all his barriers, rolled back the years and stymied the jaded cynicism he'd armored himself in until he was left bare, weak. He was undone, helpless to hold anything back - he slid one hand beneath her, cupping her bottom to arch her hips toward his and lunged. He had resolved to be gentle with her, but all his grand aspirations had fled at the burning heat of her, and it was all he could do to bury his face in the damp hollow of her throat and press searing kisses and whisper nonsensical words of praise.

            And she whimpered, "Oh. _Oh_ ," in a tremulous little voice, as if some great mystery of the universe had been revealed to her, and she clutched at him with quaking limbs and arched her back and met his driving lunges eagerly. He hadn't hurt her - she was as abandoned as he, and he thrilled to the strong clasp of her legs about his waist, the sheen of sweat glistening on her pinkened skin, the plaintive cry that erupted from her tight throat. And this time, when her head thrashed and her little claws scraped his shoulders raw and she tumbled headlong over the precipice, he joined her, muffling his own hoarse shout in the curve of her throat.

            For long moments, there was only the sound of ragged breathing, the whisper-soft sound of bare limbs on smooth sheets. And when at last he could open his eyes, he saw only mussed blonde hair, the languid smile that barely tilted the corners of her lips, the thick fringe of black lashes shielding her eyes. Beneath him she stretched leisurely, as if waking from a dream. She sighed, a deep sound of contentment, satisfaction, and uncurled her fingers long enough to pat his shoulder.

            "Well," she said on a yawn only half smothered by her free hand. "Job well done, I suppose."

            The statement surprised a brief spurt of laughter - honest to gods, _laughter_ \- out of him, and he propped himself up on one arm long enough to stare down into her flushed face. "You _suppose_?" he inquired.

            An elegant shrug. "Well, how would I know? Really, Balthier."

            "You little vixen," he accused. "I hope you had not planned on sleeping tonight." And he tumbled her back amongst the rumpled blankets until at last she fell into an exhausted slumber, only after he had proved to her his skill.

            He had never particularly wished to share his bed, had found the majority of his partners clingy and needy; he did not want them draped over him in sleep as they were so frequently wont to do while awake. But Penelo had merely curled up on her side facing away from him - as though, having performed as expected, she no longer had a use for him.

            But she was lax and pliant, all smooth, supple limbs and soft, slight curves, and she had exhausted him just as surely as he had her. He did not care to make the trek back to his own chamber, and she looked sultry and inviting, the thin sheet draped halfway over her, firelight caressing her bare skin, warming it in its fading glow.

            He soothed her in a low whisper as she sleepily protested his gentle manipulation, and she subsided quickly enough as he pillowed her face against his chest and stretched out beside her. The silky glide of her legs against his sent an electric jolt of pleasure through him, and for a moment her cool fingers traced a subtle pattern on his abdomen before coming to rest, flat and still. She fit, he realized - she fit perfectly, her head tucked beneath his chin, the sleek curves of her body reflected in the contours of his. She was neither too heavy nor too warm; she merely existed like a matching piece of a puzzle, molded to fit him, sliding comfortably into place. His arm curved perfectly around her, settling easily over her hip, and she sighed in her sleep, echoing his contentment. The delicate fragrance of her hair washed over him, infusing him with a blessed tranquility that had nothing to do with the satiation of his body and everything to do with satiation of his soul. He breathed her in like air, held her in his lungs, and fell asleep with his arms closed protectively around her.

\--

 

            The creak of the door hadn't roused Balthier from slumber. Nor had the furious, heavy steps across the well-worn floorboards. But the sharp click of a gun cocking finally penetrated the weighty shroud of sleep, and at last he forced his eyes open only to find himself staring down the barrel of Vaan's weapon, no more than six inches from his nose.

            His hands curled reflexively, catching a fistful of Penelo's soft blonde hair and curving over the sleep-warmed skin of her hip. The sheet had slipped down, and though her front was pressed against his chest, he didn't wish to share even the smallest glimpse of her bared skin with Vaan. His gaze never leaving the weapon leveled at his face, he tugged the sheet up over her shoulders and she made a soft sound of discontent, burying her face in his shoulder.

            Vaan hissed, "Took more than an hour to find where she'd gone off to - I expected to find her _alone_." When Balthier failed to make a suitable response, Vaan bit off in a wrathful whisper, "Give me one reason I shouldn't blow your damn head off."

            That clinched it; he was hardly going to allow the insolent whelp to barge in and make threats. "Well, it _would_ make an awful mess," he chided. His inability to resist a sarcastic retort would get him killed one day - and he was not altogether certain that it wouldn't be this very day.

            Vaan's inarticulate sound of rage woke Penelo, who bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. She jerked in surprise, brows lifting skyward when her eyes lit upon Vaan, and thrust one shaking hand through the tangled mass of her hair.

            "Vaan, what are you _doing_? Put that away," she snapped irritably. 

            Vaan ignored her. " _This_ wasn't part of the bargain," he snarled. "You were never supposed to take it this far."

            _Damn it all to hell - that bloody wager._

            Balthier winced, intensely aware of Penelo's sudden stillness. He hadn't given a single thought to that ill-considered wager since he'd kissed her that night aboard the _Strahl_ \- but neither Penelo nor Vaan would know that. And now she would draw conclusions that would hurt her, and that was the last thing he wanted - she deserved so much better than that ill-treatment.

            "Bargain?" she repeated in a horrified whisper. "What bargain?"

            Vaan blanched - at least he had the good grace to be ashamed of what his own actions had wrought. He lowered his weapon, turning slightly to face Penelo, face twisted in regret. "Aw, Pen," he muttered, shamefaced.

            "What bargain, Vaan?" she asked again, trembling fingers smoothing her hair over her shoulder. Instinctively Balthier reached out to soothe her, but she had not missed the fact that he had been named as coconspirator - she recoiled, skittering across the mattress, just barely keeping a hold on the sheet.

            Her breath came in shallow pants, her wounded gaze flickering over both of them. And when neither dared to speak, she cried, " _What bargain_?" in a voice that broke high and appalled.

            Vaan stared at the floor, unable to look at her. "We made a bet," he said finally.

            "Vaan, don't," Balthier interrupted hoarsely, guilt twisting in his gut. "I swear it had no bearing -"

            "She deserves the truth!" Vaan snapped at him. Then he sighed, "Pen, I'm so sorry. I never thought it would come to this. I never thought you, of all people..."

            A shocked gasp escaped her even as her fingers flew to her mouth to stifle it. She looked to Balthier for a denial, but he could not meet her pleading eyes. Her shoulders slumped and her head bowed, eyes closing on a wave of pain.

            "Oh," she whispered, the tiny murmur dredged up from the depths of her wounded soul, and a self-deprecating trill of nervous laughter burst from her throat, the sound tearing at his conscience, his heart. Interminable minutes passed in utter silence. At last her eyes opened, and they were...blank. Like a film had descended, shutting out the world so that nothing could penetrate.

            "Please go," she said at last, and her voice betrayed not even the tiniest tremble. Her face could have been cut from marble for all the emotion it showed.

            "Darling," Balthier said in a sort of soothing, cajoling tone he'd never thought to hear cross his own lips. But she tightened her grip on the sheet, swung her legs off the bed, and stood. "Allow me a moment to explain -"

            "There's nothing you have to say that I'd care to hear," she said, and her voice was calm, but distant - as though she had made a journey of a thousand miles in the few seconds that had passed, carrying her well beyond reach. She bent, her bright hair swishing as she collected his scattered clothing. She tossed it in a bundle at the foot of the bed. Then she began slowly collecting her own.

            "Pen, I'm so sorry," Vaan said in an apologetic tone.

            She sighed, wearily pressing one hand to her forehead. "Please, just go," she said. "I really can't do this right now." And she padded silently across the floor to the washroom, closing the door behind her. Then came the sound of running water, and a muffled sob that made both Vaan and Balthier flinch.

            "She's crying," Vaan said in an accusatory whisper. "She's in there crying because of you."

            Only his state of undress kept Balthier from going for Vaan's throat. "I'm hardly the only guilty party here," he sneered. "For the gods' sake, I'd entirely forgotten about that wager. _This_ had nothing to do with it."

            Vaan snorted. "Pull the other one," he said acidly, his mouth curled into a sneer.

            "I couldn't possibly give less of a damn what _you_ believe," Balthier shot back furiously. "But I'll not have _her_ believing that moronic wager had anything to do with this." It might've been the impetus that had sparked his interest, but she'd caught and held it all on her own. He couldn't remember the last time he'd given even half of a damn about _anyone's_ feelings - but that blank expression on her face had speared him straight to the soul.

            For a moment, Vaan wavered, torn between anger and grudging acceptance. He sighed, his shoulders slumping awkwardly. "She's not going to care," he muttered. "Hell, she'll never want to set eyes on either of us again, not after -" he hesitated, cheeks burning with shame. "Well, she just won't."

            A low, ragged sound of raw pain drifted through the bathroom door. Vaan's miserable gaze met Balthier's, slid guiltily away.

            "Congratulations," Vaan muttered bitterly. "Looks like you won."

\---

            Balthier dressed hurriedly after Vaan left - when Penelo emerged, he wanted her at ease, and that was best accomplished fully dressed. Minutes passed -  ten, thirty, forty-five, and finally an entire hour had elapsed as he waited silently. 

            Lightly he rapped on the heavy door.  

            No response from within. The water still rushed, but no other sound breeched beyond the sanctuary she'd created for herself.

            He tested the knob - locked, as he'd suspected. He could pick it, of course. But that would hardly reassure her, would only stoke the fires of her anger once more. Resting his forehead against the cool wood, he sighed.

            An eternity later, the water ceased its torrential downpour, and the sound of rustling fabric emanated from within. A few minutes later, the door opened. She seemed startled to see him there - her eyes were wide and surprised, but they were clear and calm, no hint of redness or indication she'd been crying whatsoever. She was fully dressed, her clothing sticking in places to her damp skin, and she toweled at her hair which was drying into soft blonde ringlets.

            "Oh," she said flatly. "You're still here."

            "Yes," he said. "Darling, please, just give me a few moments of your time -"

            "No." She sidestepped him, tossed the towel over a bedpost, and began rooting through her satchel.

            He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose; he could hardly expect her to make this easy for him. "What Vaan told you was the truth, but I swear to you -"

            "I don't care." She didn't even look at him, absorbed in her search. He was an afterthought, if he merited even that much attention. Finally she found what she was searching for - a hair ribbon - and ran her fingers through her damp hair to set it in some semblance of order as she tied her hair up away from her face. Without even a second glance at him, she turned to quit the room. He snagged her by the wrist.

            She froze, utterly and entirely. And when she turned to face him, her face was so completely devoid of expression that it hit him like a punch to the gut.

            "Don't touch me," she said softly. Her eyes looked through him, as if he was beneath her notice. "Don't _ever_ touch me."

            He had done many things for which he had felt ashamed  before, but never to the degree he did now. And he knew, with a stomach-wrenching certainty, that she would never forgive him for this. Everything that had passed between them for the last several days had been colored, tainted by the magnitude of his perfidy.

            Her gaze slid away, to the rumpled bed, and he felt the shock tremble through her as her eyes lit upon the small, rusty bloodstain marring the sheet - proof positive of what had occurred, what she had surrendered. Her eyes closed; she shook her head, heaved a sigh, and jerked her wrist from his grasp. But she hesitated in the doorway, though she was unwilling even to look at him.

            "If you have any sense of honor whatsoever, you will forget this and allow me to do the same," she said in a hoarse whisper. And then she disappeared, abandoning him to the shrill recriminations of his conscience.


	16. Chapter 16

It had been years since she had experienced pain of this magnitude. And it grew on itself, branding itself on her soul, too deep to vent, too deep to exorcise, too deep to do anything but endure. The only saving grace was that, as they were currently on their way to the Pharos Lighthouse, _endurance_ might very well mean only a few more hours of misery before death snuffed out the pain for her.

            She wasn't afraid anymore. There was no more room left in her heart for fear. It had been usurped by the broken shards of her trust, slicing her battered heart to ribbons. It wasn't that she had loved him - she was not such a fool as that. But she _had_ trusted him, and he had betrayed her in the most vicious of ways. He was the worst sort of villain. At least with the other men who'd propositioned her, she had known precisely what they had wanted, what she had been worth to them. They hadn't offered her any pretty lies, false flattery. But he had made her believe in the things he'd said, made her believe she was _worthy_ \- merely to win a bet. She wondered briefly how much her disgrace had been worth to him, what rewards he would reap. Her heart gave a raw, aching beat in her chest; the sting burned like poison in her veins.

            She was more than humiliated; she was shattered. She had never felt so pathetic, so pitiful. And it was only her own fault, all of it; hadn't she learned better over the years? Hadn't she learned her place years ago? This was simply a repetition of that lesson, a warning to never reach higher than she ought, a reminder that she was no better than she had been all along; she had merely suffered the consequences of her own hubris, her conceit, wanting to be wanted -

            "Penelo," Ashe murmured, "are you all right?"

            "Hmm?" She turned to meet Ashe's eyes, tearing her gaze from the window where she had been staring at the waters rushing by beneath the _Strahl_. "Oh, yes. Of course." Her voice was steady and even, placid. "Just a bit tired, I suppose." She had spent so long disguising her thoughts, masking her emotions. She could cast Ashe an apologetic smile despite the lump in her throat, appear poised and relaxed despite the pain that made her wish to curl in on herself protectively.

            "You ought to have been abed earlier," Basch chided. "I heard you walking the halls early this morn."

            "I changed rooms," she said absently. "I didn't want to have to summon the servants for a bath." A soft sigh. "But you're right - I'm sorry. If you don't mind, I'll take a bit of a nap so I won't be a hindrance when we arrive."

            Balthier, who had been at the helm, rose from his seat immediately, passing the controls over to Fran. "You may use my room," he said. "I'll take you."

            "No, thank you." It was a polite, monotone response. Her voice didn't falter in the slightest; she might have been proud of that if he'd left her any pride at all. "I'm fine here." She did not want his company, did not want to be alone with him even for a moment, did not want to remove herself from the safety of the group, and most especially did not want to sleep in _his_ room, where everything would smell of him, remind her of his deceit.

            "I insist," he said, his low voice crackling with command. Fran's ear twitched; she glanced over her shoulder at him speculatively.

            "She's _fine_ ," Vaan snapped at him. "Leave her alone."

            A fresh wave of humiliation - that the two of them would dare risk exposing this private matter with their quarreling. She refocused her gaze out the window, intensely aware that all eyes were now on her. But she did not blush - she was well past that stage; this shame was now hers to bear forever.

            However, she didn't care to contribute to their bickering, to give rise to further speculation. They would do as they pleased anyway, with no regard for her - what use was there in fighting it? She curled up in her chair, rested her cheek against the cool glass of the window, and closed her eyes. Whatever they revealed, she would weather the storm - this was only the freshest in a long list of offenses that had been committed against her. Perhaps eventually the hurt would cede to numbness, as it had with so many other things before.

            "Penelo will rest more comfortably abed," Balthier grated to Vaan.

            She didn't care to dignify his statement with a response, but Vaan did. "Penelo can make her own damn decisions."

            Reddas' cool voice slashed through the tense silence that followed. "What the devil is the matter with the both of you?"

            As one, Balthier and Vaan snapped, " _Nothing_."

            Balthier made a rough sound in his throat, muttered, "Vaan, a word," and jerked his head towards the narrow corridor and the privacy of his room. With a harsh expletive, Vaan stomped off the deck, Balthier swiftly on his heels.

            Although she could feel the curious stares from the rest of the party, Penelo ignored them. She _was_ tired; she'd gotten precious little sleep the night before, due to - but, no, she'd resolved to push that from her mind. With considerable effort she managed to blank her thoughts, concentrating only on the cool, cool glass against her cheek, the only stable thing in her disordered world.

            --

            Balthier slid the door into place and glared at Vaan. "Well done," he said snidely. "She'll _surely_ be pleased to have garnered unwanted attention."

            "And _you_ were any better?" Vaan snapped testily. Animosity rolled off of him in waves; his fists clenched at his sides as though imagining taking a swing at Balthier. Probably he was; it was not unusual for Vaan to have bursts of temper, but Balthier doubted he'd ever been so furious.

            Not that he could blame the boy - Balthier might have considered allowing him a bit of retribution, if only to ease the guilt that clawed at his gut. He deserved the blow Vaan was clearly itching to throw. But there was simply no way that the sound wouldn't carry, and there would almost certainly be questions that neither of them would be able to answer without Penelo suffering further for it.

            "No," Balthier acknowledged finally. "Perhaps I wasn't. But it serves no purpose to be at one another's throat. Neither of us is the injured party in this drama."

            Caught off guard, Vaan blinked. "What are you getting at?"

            Balthier pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. "She's overwrought; that damned wager has mortified her. She would take it poorly were the others to learn of it."

            Vaan scoffed. "What do you care, anyway?"

            Barely resisting the urge to throttle the impudent boy, Balthier snarled, "As I've said, that wager had _nothing_ to do with this." For the gods' sake, it had never been his intention to hurt her. If only Vaan hadn't burst into her room this morning, this whole disaster might've been averted. But it was far too late for such regrets - now he could only protect her in the only manner yet left within his power. He sighed. "We're in this mess together - we must find a way to right the wrong."

            Vaan's fists unclenched; he shoved his hands into his pockets, tilting his head to scrutinize Balthier as if he'd never seen him before. His brows drawn in confusion, he inquired, "How?"

            "To begin with, consider the wager called off." He ought never to have agreed to it in the first place.

            Vaan started as if he'd been struck. Balthier could hardly fault him for his shock; if someone had told him a week prior that he would turn down a fortune to spare the feelings of a woman, he'd have laughed in their face.

            "But...why?" Vaan asked. "You _won_."

            With a low, self-deprecating laugh, Balthier muttered, "Then why does it feel as though I've lost?"

            --

            It was the silence that woke Penelo. The crashing of the waves had built to a furious crescendo and then ceased abruptly, jerking her awake. Her cheek had gone numb where it had been pressed against the glass, and her stomach pitched as she gazed out the window into the endless void that stretched below. It was dizzying, disconcerting to see nothing but inky blackness beneath the ship.

            "I wouldn't recommend staring into the Cataract," Reddas said. "It seems to inspire dread even in the most intrepid of souls."

            As though she could not help herself, Ashe peeked through the window over Penelo's shoulder, then shuddered delicately. Unnerved by the sight herself, Penelo pulled away from the window, rubbing her cheek in hopes of recovering some feeling in it.

            "It feels like we might drop out of the sky at any moment," she muttered.

            "It'll pass," Reddas said. "We'll be on the other side in ten minutes or so - if you must look, keep your eyes on the horizon, and watch for the Pharos Lighthouse."

            Penelo glanced around; sometime during her nap, both Vaan and Balthier had reappeared. Balthier had taken up his seat at the helm and, strangely enough, Fran had vacated her seat in favor of Vaan, who bent his head over the control panel. Neither one of them seemed to have a care for anything but the piloting of the _Strahl_.

            She didn't care. They could both go to the devil.

            "Ah, there." Reddas gestured out the window. In the distance, where the horizon was a perfect split between endless blue and endless black, a thin sliver of something sliced through the sky, growing steadily larger as they approached. With no frame of reference for their movement, no clouds, no oceans, no landmarks, the object on the horizon instead appeared to be rushing towards them. 

            That thin object pierced the sky, climbing higher and higher, widening from a needle into a tower. Sound returned, in a low whisper at first, then a rumble. Before their eyes, the tower grew roots, spreading its base across the cliff that loomed in the distance, hovering on the horizon at the very edge of the abyss. The rumble had grown into a roar, the fierce protest of the waterfalls that surrounded the tower, tumbling over the cliff into the Cataract.

            Built entirely of shiny, black stones, it was more fortress than lighthouse, stretched in a massive sprawl over the cliffs, devouring all available land.

            "The Pharos has withstood the test of time; though the civilization that constructed it has long since fallen out of memory, the Pharos itself remains," Reddas said. "There, at the top of the tower - that's where the Sun Cryst resides."

            As if on cue, a bright flash of light from the tower split the sky - a signal, guiding them onwards.

            Beside Penelo, Ashe shifted restlessly in her seat, clutching the hilt of the Treaty Blade that lay across her lap. Her face was troubled; she would have to make this decision for herself, and the fate of all of Ivalice would hang in the balance. No words of reassurance would be forthcoming from any of their party - what could be said that wouldn't ring false? There was no ideal solution.

            Uncomfortably, Penelo turned her face away. Rather than peer into the chasm below, she focused on her faint reflection in the window. She looked tired, still, with dark smudges beneath her eyes, her face a bit paler than it ought to be. That much she could probably pass off as nerves, but...on her throat, just beneath her pulse point, there was a tiny, purpling bruise - a 'gift' from Balthier, a remnant of the night before, she supposed. Her fingernails pricked her palms as her fists clenched unconsciously.

            For a moment she considered how to hide the mark. But they had all received their share of scrapes and bruises; probably this one would go unnoticed. Or even it if it were, it would be attributed to some incident or other - she still had that slowly yellowing bruise upon her cheek to attest to her own aches and pains, after all.

            "Make ready," Basch said. He rose to his feet as the _Strahl_ began a slow descent. "Reddas, you will take point as you know the way."

            Penelo stood, slung her bow over her shoulder, and pressed her fingers to the cool glass. Just a little further, now. The moment of reckoning was close at hand. Unfortunately - or maybe _fortunately_ , depending on how one chose to look at it - she no longer cared about the outcome.

            --

            Resigned. She looked resigned. Probably she didn't notice, but she had set herself apart once again, trailing a few steps more than necessary behind Ashe, who was flanked on either side by Vaan and Basch. Balthier had grown accustomed to the stubborn set of her shoulders, the spry lightness of her steps. Now, her shoulders slumped as though a massive weight had been thrust upon them, so deep the slope that she had to clasp the grip of her bow in her hand lest it slide right off her shoulder entirely. Her steps were mechanical, a rote performance to see her through to her destination, as if she functioned entirely on autopilot. Every few moments she ducked her head, brushing her bangs from her face. Though she had to know that both he and Fran followed behind, she hadn't glanced back even once.

            "What have you done to earn her enmity?" Fran inquired softly, her voice carrying no further than his ears.

            Balthier rubbed away the frown lines that had etched themselves into his forehead. "I won a wager," he muttered acidly. There was no sense in lying to her; she would doubtless discover the truth on her own. She had already noted his preoccupation, had learned over the years to read his face for the answers she sought.

            Fran mulled over his response for a moment. "At her expense, I assume?"

            A tight nod. It was all he could manage.

            "The terms of this wager?" The vague disapproval in Fran's voice suggested she had already come to the correct conclusion herself.

            He remained silent, reluctant to admit his guilt aloud.

            Fran cleared her throat, shook her head in disappointment. "Are you so determined to avoid such entanglements that you would injure an innocent girl in such a manner?" she asked.

            Balthier rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing. The look in Penelo's eyes haunted him still; that betrayal had broken a part of her that had steadfastly endured through all of her trials. That terrible blankness that had followed - as if her soul had been ripped from her body, cast into the ether. "I had forgotten," he admitted finally. "About the wager, I mean to say. She will never believe it, but it's true nonetheless. It was a foolish mistake. I would not have collected upon it; I would not have hurt her in that way." At least, not once she had come to mean something. What she had become, precisely, he had no name for, but he had acquired a new respect for her, an admiration for her strength, her resilience, her determination. All of which she had lost. No, not lost - he had stolen them from her. He had never seen anyone look so bleak, disconsolate.

            The stygian depths of the fortress had swallowed up his words, consigning them to the darkness, buried in this ancient tomb they traversed.

            Fran sighed. "I fear you are correct," she said at last. "She will never believe it. A shame, that - something so precious destroyed in a careless moment." She cast him a pitying glance. "She would have been good for you."

            --

            They had been climbing stairs for what felt like hours, trudging at a steady pace up the steep incline that would lead them to the top of the tower. The air was stagnant, stale, but growing thinner with each level they ascended, and Penelo knew they would soon reach the top. Though her lungs burned and her muscles ached, she would not be the one to call halt. That would mean regrouping, would mean facing Vaan and Balthier, having to pretend an ease in their company that she did not feel.

            But she found it would not be necessary - as they proceeded up the next flight of stairs, a burst of laughter from somewhere above them rent the silence. The sound was jarring, chilling - it slipped over her like a rush of icy water, provoking a shudder.

            "Cidolfus," Reddas murmured. "Princess, you must not falter. Above all, we cannot allow him to triumph."

            Ashe managed a nod, gripping the Treaty Blade in her white-knuckled hands. "I will play my part," she said in tremulous voice. "I will do as I must."

           The last flight of stairs ended at a door; Reddas cautiously pushed it open, and light spilled into the dim corridor, blinding them. Shielding her eyes against it, Penelo took a breath as she realized it was not sunlight after all, but the brilliant glow of the Sun Cryst. The top of the tower was a large, flat platform, bordered on all sides by a low wall.

            In the center, embedded into the stone of the tower, the Sun Cryst rested, a massive, shimmering crystal, pulsing so brightly it hurt to gaze upon it.

            At the far edge, Cidolfus, perched upon the wall, his arms casually resting in his lap.

            "Good of you to join us, Princess," he said. "I trust your sojourn to Giruvegan was enlightening?"

            "You've come for naught," Ashe sneered. "I will be neither tool nor puppet. I _won't_ be used by the likes of you."

            "Have you come to kill me, then?" Cid's smooth, sure voice grated along frayed nerves, evoked revulsion and fury. "Surely you must realize the futility of it. Our exchange in Draklor ought to have been proof enough of that." He rose slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, and clasped his hands behind his back. "I could have killed you then," he said. "But I did so want the Treaty Blade. And look, here you have brought it to me."

            "You think I will give it over to you?" Ashe gasped. "You are _mad_."

            "Given our history, I can hardly expect your cooperation. A shame - we could have been allies." He held out his hand. "The blade, princess. Your role is ended; you are no longer necessary. Do you wish a quick death, or a lingering one? My patience wears thin."

           Fran took a step forward, stumbled, clutched her head. "Mists," she breathed. "The Sun Cryst is steeped in them. This song it sings..."

            Cid sneered, "Ffamran, your pet requires better training."

            Balthier jerked forward furiously, his gun raised, but Basch stopped him with a hand on his arm, and a whispered, " _Remember Draklor_."

            Fran whimpered, hands pressed over her ears, eyes squeezed shut. "This terrible endless song, it carries the weight of thousands of years. The heart beats, the song consumes." Her voice ended in a pitiful wail. "Break the heart, end the song. Shatter the stone, end the gods."

            Cid chuckled. "Your pet is crazed," he said. "It would be a kindness to have it put down."

            Penelo stared at the Sun Cryst - its light yet shimmered, but she thought - she thought the pulse of it did resemble the beat of a heart, rhythmic, regular.

            She was not the only one who had noticed.

            " _Break the heart!_ " Fran shrieked. Then, with a whimper, she dropped like a stone.

            "Fools!" Cid shouted, his composure shaken at last. "The Sun Cryst is the source of all nethicite; you'll render it useless and kill us all in the process! The shock alone..."

            Reddas held his hand out to Ashe. "The blade," he said. "Give it to me."

            She stared, uncomprehending.

            "Such power extinguished - it will surely demand a sacrifice," he clarified. "A life in exchange for Ivalice's freedom; it is not so very much to ask."

            "Venat!" Cid snarled. "I have need of you!"

            "Now!" Reddas snapped. "This is my absolution, penance for my sins. This much, at least, I can do."

            And Ashe laid the blade in his hands, entrusting to him the fate of Ivalice. A high-pitched hum began; the ancient song that before only Fran's sensitive ears could detect. The stone was enraged; its furious song swelled into a cacophonous screech. The tower vibrated to the intensity of the incensed melody.

            "Take cover!" Reddas shouted over the din. He brandished the blade, striding resolutely towards the Sun Cryst. A shimmer of light shifted into a murky shadow, a spectre barred the path - but the Treaty Blade had been forged by the Occuria, and the spectre cowered from it. Before their eyes, it retreated, shrinking away, even amidst Cid's furious protest, abandoning Cid to his uncertain fate.

            To Penelo's left, Basch had thrust Ashe to the cold stone, shielding her with his body as best as he was able. Vaan had dropped as well, covering his head with his hands. Perhaps Penelo ought to have taken cover as well, but she was frozen, unable to tear her gaze from Reddas, who raised his arms over his head, the sword held like a dagger, poised to plunge it into the heart of the Sun Cryst. 

            Cid charged across the platform towards Reddas, shouting, "No; you cannot mean to do this!"

            A firm pair of hands came down upon Penelo's shoulders, shoving her to her knees. She fought against the pressure.

            "You little fool," Balthier snarled at her ear as he shoved her head down. "You're going to get yourself killed!"

            "Get off!" she cried, but he had dropped down over her, pinning her to the ground with the weight of his body, wrapping his arms protectively over her head.

            "For the gods' sake - you may be furious with me, but you'll damn well do it _later_ ," he snapped. And then his voice was drowned out; an explosion rocked the tower, deafening in its intensity. There was the sting of flying debris, the sharp slice of the remnants of the Sun Cryst that cut through air and skin in the places Balthier had not managed to entirely shield. She gasped for air, feeling as though her breath had been sucked from her lungs. The tower shuddered for long moments, and she feared it would come crashing down - but somehow it remained stable, and when the tower had settled at last, Balthier slowly, carefully eased his weight off of her.

            Penelo dragged herself to her knees, coughing from the dust in the air. Reddas was gone - he had been at the epicenter of the explosion. The Treaty Blade was embedded into the cracked remains of the Sun Cryst. Its light forever extinguished, it was simply ordinary crystal, fragmented, useless.

            All around her, the rest of the party was rousing slowly, brushing off dust and wincing over minor wounds, but whole and hale.

            Cid took a gurgling breath. He had taken a good deal of damage, as close as he had been to the Sun Cryst. And Penelo drew in a sharp breath as she saw the massive shard that protruded from his chest.

            A drop of blood landed on her shoulder. She glanced up; Balthier had risen to his feet. He had shielded her, taking the brunt of the flying shards. His shirt was ripped through, unsalvageable - blood dripped from cuts on his hands, which he had used to cover her head.

            "It's done," he rasped to Cid. "It's over. Will you yield?"

            Cid coughed, blood dribbled down his chin. He shook his head, painfully grating out, "You've...destroyed everything." A gasp, a horrible, wheezing breath. "Fool of a pirate."

            Cid dropped to his knees. His mouth worked, but his lungs has ceased to draw air, offering up only a steady stream of blood. At last his eyes closed - he pitched forward. The impact forced the shard in his chest clean through his ribcage. There was the sickening crunch of bone, then the protrusion of the shard through his back. Penelo turned her face away, squeezed her eyes shut, and took deep, even breaths, fighting the urge to retch.

            Against all odds, they had succeeded. But it had cost Reddas his life, and he had proved himself an honorable man at the last. Ivalice would be the poorer for the loss. And without the shards of the Sun Cryst, they would have to best Vayne face to face.

            They were all wounded, weary. They had won the battle, but the war raged on. But now, there was hope that it could indeed be ended - that Reddas' sacrifice would not be in vain.

             "Reddas," Ashe murmured, in a plaintive tone. Tears trembled upon her lashes, regrets over her treatment of Reddas that had come too late.

            "He will be remembered," Basch said. "As a hero rather than a villain. He chose his path; he died with honor. Let us not tarry here; we must give his sacrifice the respect it deserves and carry on."


	17. Chapter 17

When they arrived back in Balfonheim without Reddas, Rista had known without their saying that he would not ever be returning. Though her face had crumpled in despair for a moment, she had drawn herself up, gathered her strength, and brushed away the tears that had escaped.

            "Rista," Ashe began hesitantly. "Reddas is..."

            "No," Rista said, waving away the words. "Don't, I beg you." She sniffled, pressed her hands over her eyes. "If I begin this dreadful weeping, I shall never stop. There will be time to mourn later. For now, you ought to be patched up. I'll not have you dripping blood and gods know what else on Reddas' -" she faltered here, her lips trembling, brows drawing in anguish. "Please allow me to escort you to the drawing room," she said in a tight voice.

            As they traversed the hallways, she snapped out orders to lingering servants, sending them scurrying for bandages, clean cloth, hot water, salve - all manner of things, in an effort to regain a sense of normalcy, to maintain her composure. By the time they reached the drawing room, a good deal of the requested items had already been gathered.

            "You may, of course, stay here as long as you please," Rista said, busying herself with cleaning her hands, separating out cloths and bandages. "Though I can't imagine you'll want to put off the inevitable any longer than necessary."

            "We'll stay the night only," Basch said. "It will not do to linger and allow Vayne the opportunity to shore up his defenses." He hissed as Rista swabbed a damp cloth over his face, sweeping away layers of dirt, grime, and blood.

            Basch's armor had provided some degree of protection, but he'd sustained some minor injuries to his face and hands - Rista ignored his flinching and swept a thin film of salve over the more superficial wounds, directing servants to cut down cloths for the few that would want wrapping.

            "My, my," Rista fussed as she moved along to Balthier. "Always the pirates getting reckless, now, isn't it?" She examined his face, clucking with concern to see the extent of the damage. Fishing a pair of tweezers from her pocket, she gently plucked at bits of crystal that yet stuck in the wounds, pressing carefully to ease any deeper shards to the surface.

            "Here, now," she groused when he winced as she swiped a bit of the salve over the cuts. "It stings, but it'll keep it clean and stave off infection. If you can't stomach the cure, you ought to take better care avoid the ailment."

            Penelo turned her face away, holding out her hand for the cloth a servant offered to clean her own wounds. They were exceptionally minor, owing to Balthier's protection, but she had not asked for it, had not wanted it, and she'd be damned if she would express gratitude for it.

            "Such a shame, this shirt it ruined," she heard Rista mutter to Balthier. "I hope you've another."

            "Yes," Balthier murmured in response. "It's no great loss; it is only a shirt."

            Only a shirt that was soaked through with blood - blood that had dried into rusty, tacky spots which caused it to stick to his skin and pull at his wounds as Rista gently tugged it off of him to get at the wounds hidden beneath.

            Lightly Rista sponged at the stubborn bloodstains, taking care not to aggravate the cuts and scrapes that marred the length of his back. The steady _plink-plink-plink_ of stray shards dropped into a tray after they'd been dug from his flesh was jarring, evoking a confusing surge of guilt in Penelo.

            She had not wanted his protection - but he'd offered it anyway, taking the wounds that should have been hers. He had not complained of the pain, had made the journey of several hours back without any indication of the severity of his injuries. It was only now that she realized why his back had been so ramrod straight on the trip back - he had had so many shards lodged within his back that to settle into his chair would only force them deeper into his flesh.

            "Oh," Rista chuckled as the cloth eased away the last of the blood. "At least _someone_ had a pleasant night."

            Baffled, Penelo glanced over - the blood had been cleared from Balthier's back to reveal, amidst the myriad wounds, long, regular welts in evenly spaced vertical lines. With a shocking jolt, she realized they were the marks her nails had left behind - she had clawed at him, scratched him, dug her nails into his flesh and held on tightly, and even now his back bore the evidence of her abandon.

            He didn't so much as glance in her direction, to her immense relief. Instead he retrieved a clean cloth to wipe his face and neck, then held still as Rista applied a series of bandages to the worst of the wounds to his back. "Surely if a man is running on limited time, he is entitled to spend it in the arms of a beautiful woman," he said at last.

            But some silky thread of implication colored his tone, and though Penelo didn't think anyone else would catch it, she thought that perhaps the words had been intended exclusively for her. She couldn't even be bothered to muster up the fury that she ought to have - there was only the agonizing throb of her heart, the rending pain that even Rista's salve and bandages couldn't hope to heal.

            "I think I will retire for the evening," she said evenly, rising from the sofa, warding off the protests of the servants who fluttered round the room, offering tea and refreshments.

            "But you've had no supper," Rista said, brows raised.

            Penelo waved away the protest. "Perhaps I'll take some later," she said noncommittally. "For now, I only want a bath and a bed, thank you."

            And she slipped away, oblivious to the perplexed stares trained on her back.

            --

            There was something so satisfying about a hot bath - of all the creature comforts denied her in the past several years, this simple pleasure had been the one she had missed the most. She could do without the soft bed, the pretty clothes, the servants to wait upon her every whim. But the hot, clear, sweetly scented water, the soaps and oils - those had been the hardest to acclimate to doing without. In the beginning of her descent into the hellish world of the street children, she had felt so dirty, unable to manage anything more than a simple sponge-bath with cold, murky water.

            Even though the soap stung her eyes, stung in the tiny cuts she'd acquired, she felt she could bear anything to feel clean. The plumbing in this section of the house allowed her the ability to rinse out the tub when the grime she'd accumulated today turned the water opaque and grey, to freshen the tub with clean water once more, to experiment with different scented salts, to soak until her fingers had turned wrinkly.

            She didn't know how long she had lazed about in the tub, but the mirror had fogged over with steam, the room was humid and the air heavy. She'd washed her hair no fewer than three times, scrubbed at her skin until it was pink and glowing, until the heat of the water had penetrated sore muscles, turning them lax.

            And then the steam that hung heavy in the air swirled, pulled by a current, and she knew that the running water had masked the sound of the door opening. This door _had_ been fitted with a lock - and that could only mean that someone had picked it. She supposed she ought to have anticipated this, but somehow she had held out the hope that, having gotten what he wanted, he would leave her in peace.

            Clearly, that was not to be. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips to her temples to massage away the tension that had gathered there.

            From the doorway, he said, "I should like to speak with you."

            "I locked the door," she said. "That ought to have been a fairly clear message."

            His steps were nearly silent as he crossed the tile floor - probably he'd already removed his boots, but she didn't care to so much as look at him to find out. Instead she sank deeper within the water, grateful for the film of bubbles that obscured the surface.

            "Do you mind?" she snapped. "I'm bathing - I don't think a bit of peace and quiet is altogether too much to ask."

            "Will you speak with me when you are through?" he inquired. He paused beside the tub, dropped slowly to his knees, and dipped one finger into the water, stirring up the foamy bubbles. Though she didn't deign to look at him, in her peripheral vision she could see that he had not yet donned a fresh shirt.

            When she failed to respond, failed to chance even a glance in his direction, he gave a low chuckle. "I thought not," he said. "So perhaps you will understand why I would take the chances that present themselves."

            She heaved a sigh, pressed her fingers to her eyes. "I don't care, Balthier," she said wearily. "You won. Congratulations. Isn't that enough for you?"

            He made a rough sound in his throat. "It might've been, at one time."

            "I can't even look at you," she said raggedly. "You've taken everything from me. My pride. My self-respect. My only friend." She would never be able to look at Vaan the same way again. He had as good as sold her, bargaining away her self-worth as though it was of no consequence. But then, she supposed it wasn't; it hadn't been for years and years. Her hands dropped, her eyes fixed straight ahead as she took a deep, even breath to stave off the choking sorrow.

            _You take and take. Soon there will be nothing left of her._

            Fran's voice resounded in his head, plucking at his battered conscience. He didn't have the words to soothe her; he was guilty of all of which she'd accused him.

            "It was never my intention to hurt you," he said, but the words sounded pathetic even to his ears, a pitiful attempt to excuse the inexcusable.

            "Oh, of course," she said bitterly. "I suppose it was just _business_ , then, and I ought not take it personally."

            "That's not what I said," he grated, her scorn pricking his temper.

            Her hands curled into fists. In a low voice, she asked, "How much was I worth?"

            He froze - whatever he had expected her to say, to ask, it had not been that. And he knew that giving her the answer she sought would only wound her further. Thus he fell silent, ashamed.

            "How much?" she insisted tightly. "Don't I deserve to know what I earned you?"

            "It doesn't matter -"

            "It matters!" Her voice broke - horrified, she covered her mouth with her hand, clenching the other on the side of the tub. When she had composed herself, she said at last, " _How much_ , Balthier? What did you stand to lose? What did you win? _"_

            He winced. Somehow this was more difficult than he had expected; he had not anticipated that the recounting of events would be quite so uncomfortable. But his distress would be nothing in comparison to hers, and maybe she deserved to know the whole of it. "Vaan's portion of our reward...versus the _Strahl_ ," he said quietly.

            She tipped her head back, resting it against the rim of the tub, the breath sighing shakily from her lungs. And she pressed her hands to her cheeks and laughed bitterly. "Perhaps I ought to have negotiated with you for a share of your winnings. I had no idea I was worth so much. Should I be flattered?"

            He had thought he could retain control of this situation, cajole her into a more amiable frame of mind, explain to her the circumstances, beg her pardon, obtain her forgiveness. He ought to have known better, he supposed - she had been the one woman whose mind worked in trickier ways than his own, her contrariness a constant surprise and thorn in his side.

            "We've called it off," he said in a last-ditch effort to sway her. "The wager - it's done. Neither of us intended for you to be hurt, so we've put an end to it. No one's won anything, lost anything."

            At last her eyes met his - he had thought she might be surprised out of her anger, or perhaps even gratified by his announcement; he had not, after all, a reputation for generosity. He had misjudged somehow; the stark pain in her eyes made him flinch. Too late, he remembered that _she_ had lost things at their hands.

            "No," she said. She braced her arms on the rim of the tub, lifting herself out of the water, and for a moment he was spellbound by the water sluicing off her skin, the slick slide of bubbles over her arms, her breasts, her flat stomach. She snatched up a towel, wrapping it around herself.

            "No?" he managed, swiping his hand over his mouth, baffled by her denial.

            "You've won. Take your winnings, you've earned them." She tucked the edge of the towel between her breasts, freeing her hands to wring the water from her sodden hair. "Only leave me alone. The price of your attention is too high. I'd have had more pride as a whore. " She snickered, a harsh, ugly sound. "At least I would have known the terms. I'd have preferred a business transaction to false flattery and lies." Her voice was even, blasé, but as she wiped the steam from the mirror and peered within it, he could see the tightness of her jaw, the stubborn set of her chin reflected in the glass. She was putting on a good show, an admirable attempt at nonchalance, but her fingers trembled as she dragged them through her hair, carefully picking out the tangles.

            "I never gave you false flattery," he said, rising. "I may have omitted a truth here and there -"

            "You _may have_ omitted a truth?" she asked caustically.

            He made a rough sound, his mouth drawn into a scowl, patience wearing thin. "Do you suppose you might be prevailed upon to allow me to finish a sentence?"

            "Do you suppose you might be prevailed upon to behave in a manner which _doesn't_ suggest your head is lodged firmly within your ass?" She spoke the question in such a benign tone of voice that it took a moment for the insult to hit. Or perhaps he'd merely been distracted by the curve of her bottom, accentuated by the towel that pulled tightly across it when she bent over the vanity.

            He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was attempting to apologize," he said, and he knew that his frustration was coloring his tone, but he could not seem to prevent it. She dragged out the worst in him.  

             "Is that so? Because it sounded to me as if you were trying to explain why I should not have taken offense to being made a fool of. I can't say your intentions make even the tiniest bit of difference to me. The end result is the same." She scraped her damp hair over her shoulder, pushed away from the vanity.

            He _knew_ he had hurt her; he was steeped in guilt enough without her throwing his callous actions back in his face with every word she spoke. "Last night had nothing to do with that wager. Believe that, if nothing else."

            She shook her head in rueful disbelief, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't care if you're sorry. I don't care whether you won or lost. I don't care whether or not you've _called it off_. Whatever it is that you're trying to accomplish, Balthier, you ought to give it up - _I don't care_."

            This had all gone wrong. Why had he expected her to simply meekly accept his explanation? She _said_ she didn't care, but her tightly pursed lips, the tension in her shoulders said otherwise. So she _did_ care - only, not about his excuses, his apologies. They could not erase the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. The past could not be rewritten with pretty words, her memory would not be erased with well-meaning gestures. Too late for regrets, for apologies - they were meaningless to her now.

            She crossed the tile floor slowly, but he was blocking the door and she could not pass. "You've gotten what you wanted," she said in a low, hard voice.   

            "No," he snapped. "I haven't." But he could not say what it was that he wanted, had no name for what he was yet lacking.

            Her brows lifted. "Oh?" she inquired. "What have you come for, then?"

            But there was nothing he could put a name to; he had only wanted to make her understand, to mitigate the pain he'd placed in her eyes as surely as if he'd thrust a dagger through her heart. He had told her his truth, and she had not believed it. A muscle ticked in his jaw, evidence of his aggravation.

            She tilted her head to the side, studying him impassively. "Have you come to make me an offer?"

            He jerked as if she'd struck him. " _What_?"

            She shrugged. "It's a reasonable assumption. Why else would you be here? So what will you offer me? A thousand gil? Ten thousand? I daresay you'll be able to afford it once you collect upon your winnings." As she spoke, she tugged at the towel tucked between her breasts. The fabric dipped, parted, and he made a concentrated effort to drag his gaze away, to narrow his eyes on her face. The towel fell away to the floor; he swallowed hard.

            Her hair had darkened to liquid gold, a lock of it curled against her throat - he watched it yield a droplet of water that clung to her skin, sliding down the silky curve of her throat to nestle in the hollow of her collarbone. That siren smile turned her lips - but her eyes were cold, hard. Warily he watched her approach, felt, with a shock that jolted his entire body, her slender arms drape around his neck, her soft body press itself against his own.

            "Your offer, Balthier," she whispered at his ear.

            He shook his head; his body thrummed with the tension of muscles aching to explode into action. "That would make you a whore."

            A high, tinkling trill of laughter. "You made me a whore with your wager. I'm merely playing the role you gave me."

           A rough sound burst from his throat; his hands that had been clenched at his sides gripped her waist, turning her, shoving her against the wall, holding her there with the press of his body. "You're angry, and you're entitled to be - but this isn't you," he said. "You're better than this. You've always been better." The damp slide of her skin on his was torturous; she was stealing away his words with the play of her delicate fingers over his shoulders.

            She pursed her lips into a pout, said, "Shall we call it five hundred, then? I'd expected a bit higher to be honest, but I suppose I'm not really in a position to negotiate any longer."

            "Don't," he grated. "For the gods' sake, _don't_ do this." He was furious, now, too; she was striking back at him with the only weapon in her arsenal. She had conflated him in her mind with every other man who had lusted after her, painting him with the same brush.

            She arched her hips to his, and he shuddered. "Am I not worth the price, then?" she asked with saccharine sweetness. "Of course, you would be a better judge than I."

            Of their own accord, his hands had clenched upon her hips with bruising strength. He had hoped to hold her away, to put a bit of distance between their bodies so that he could think, without the teasing press of hers to drive thought from his mind. Instead he felt himself lifting her, pulling her closer. His hands urged her hips against his, only the leather of his pants separating them. The heat of her skin scorched him, seared away his good intentions. And her hands had slipped between them, working the closure of his pants, her fingers curling around him, her grip tight and warm and perfect.

            He struggled for breath, for the tiniest thread of self-control. "You're not a whore," he said in a strangled tone. "I'm not buying you for the night. This isn't about money changing hands." The sweet stroke of her fingers on him made his muscles bunch tight, in an agony of desire. He managed to grate out between clenched teeth, "Understand that now, or this ends."

            She bared her own teeth in a sneer. "I'm going to use you, like you used _me_ ," she hissed.

             That was fair. Because he _had_ used her, at least at the beginning. And he had no illusions - she _was_ using him, revenging herself upon everyone who had ever hurt her, who had ever undermined her confidence, who had ever made her feel less than she was. She would use him to take back the autonomy that had been stolen from her.

            And he said, "Fine. That's good. That's fair." He cupped her cheek in his hand, lifted her chin. " _This_ time." Her eyes glinted blue fire at him, her fury unabated. She jerked her face away.

            "Shut up," she snapped harshly, shoving his pants low over his hips. "Just don't say a godsdamned word. I don't want to hear it."

            Her fingers clenched upon his shoulders as his gripped her thighs, lifting her feet off the floor so that she could wrap her legs around him. He tried to be gentle, he strove for a careful, easy entry. But she grabbed a fistful of his hair, squeezed her legs around his hips, ordered, "Hurry _up_!"

            Her silky inner muscles clenched around him; his hips jerked reflexively, sinking fully inside her, unable to suppress the groan of satisfaction that rose. Her head fell back, a helpless sigh escape her tight throat. He hadn't hurt her, at least; she shifted experimentally, rolled her hips as much as her limited range of movement would allow. He drew his hips back, surged forward, pressing deep - her nails bit into his skin, raking over freshly-tended cuts and scrapes. He didn't care; the minor sting was inconsequential in comparison to the pleasure of being inside her.

            He watched the encroaching bliss chase the away the wrath from her face, felt the tension in her limbs ease into quivering pliancy. A passion flush turned her skin to rose-gold - for just a few moments rational thought was banished to the farthest reaches of her mind, conquered by the all-consuming ecstasy that he offered. The sounds she made tore at him, lusty little cries that echoed in the tiled room, battering his restraint away from all sides. Inside, he felt the contractions that signaled her release, the sweet pull of her inner muscles encouraging his own. She cried out, clung and held, and he was helpless to resist the velvety pulse of her body - he shuddered, gasped, and gave in to his own release.

            She trembled in the aftermath, panting as she struggled to regain her breath. He stroked her hair, rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, but she pushed back when he would have kissed her. 

            She shoved at him, said, "No," in a tremulous voice, though where they were still joined her body clung sweetly to his. She didn't want his affection, didn't want his comfort. She wriggled in his arms, angling for escape. At last he released her, carefully easing her feet back down to the floor.

            He didn't know why her rejection had made him feel so bereft. Though he had never been one to care overly much for that sort of thing - the intimacy that women so frequently desired from him, the tender touches, the whispered love words - his arms felt empty now. It wasn't that he had necessarily wanted them for himself, but that she deserved them. She deserved to be praised, petted, held.

            But she had not wanted those things - at least not from _him_. Or at least not any longer.

            She grabbed up a fresh towel from a rack, tucked it around her, turned her back on him, but her body yet shivered with fulfillment, her color was still high, her heart still pounded furiously in her chest. "You're excused," she said, running her fingers through her disheveled hair in an attempt to comb it into some semblance of order.

            "I beg your pardon?" He jerked on his pants, tugging them back up over his hips.

            "You're _excused_ ," she said again, in a tone that suggested that he was not very bright. "I'm done with you." She gestured vaguely with one hand. "There's the door."

            He had never been _dismissed_ as she was doing, could feel the indignation rising. "If you think I'm simply going to allow you to dismiss me -"

            "You don't get a _choice_ ," she snapped. "Just as _I_ didn't get a choice." But her resolve wavered as she passed the threshold from the washroom into the bedroom. She pressed her hands to her face, shook her head as if to clear it, wilted to sit upon the foot of the bed.

            His annoyance fled as quickly as it had arisen; he got the feeling that her revenge had been a double-edged sword, wounding her far more than it had him. Feeling curiously deflated, he padded silently across the floor toward her.

            With one hand she warded him off, saying in a choked voice, "Please just let me be. I've made enough of a fool of myself as it is."

            His heart wrenched in his chest. "Sweet, no," he murmured. His arms ached with the need to place them around her, hold her until that despairing expression had faded to a distant memory. But he didn't know how to fix this, how to ease the pain he'd caused her.

            She drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around them, dropped her head into the cradle of her arms. "Please," she whispered again, her voice muffled.

            And still his feet carried him across the floor towards her. Gently he stroked her hair, bent to kiss the top of her head.

            She flinched from the tender gesture.

            She might as well have lodged a knife in his gut and twisted.

            Wordlessly he drew away. No matter that he had wanted to soothe her - his every attempt merely hurt her further. Remorse for his carelessness clouded his mind; guilt caught his heart in a vise, making each beat painful in his chest. He had never been burdened with so many regrets, had never found himself in a situation he couldn't talk his way out of.

            For now, he could only do as she asked, and give her the peace she sought - at least enough time to collect herself. Though it was unaccountably hard to leave her, he slipped silently out the door and closed it behind him.


	18. Chapter 18

Hours had passed; she had not emerged from her room for supper, had not even called for anything to be brought to her. Probably no one else had noticed, but he had been watching, waiting, lingering in the corridor long after he ought to have, his mind torturing him with visions of her disconsolate expression and phantom sounds of distress from within her room.

            His efforts had only backfired, magnifying her hurt instead of easing it. Tomorrow they might meet their end - she might've died today but for his insistence on protecting her. Though he hoped he was wrong, he thought a part of her might have seen death as a welcome escape, an easy avenue to end her pain. He feared that such an outlook would make her reckless, that his actions had broken her, thrust her into a dark and quiet place, where her better judgment was compromised, where she would take risks and damn the consequences, because she no longer cared about the outcome.

            She said he'd taken everything from her. She'd taken things from him, too - his composure, his rational thought, his common sense. His ability to assess a situation from outside, to break a problem down into its likely solutions, to stay several steps ahead of the game. She had tilted his neatly-ordered world on its axis, upsetting all of his carefully-laid plans, giving him fits with her careless disregard for her own safety.

            That was going to end. She'd been entitled to a bit of a sulk, but malingering was hardly going to serve her. And he'd not meekly retire to his room, banished from her sight like a poorly-behaved pet any longer. He was not going to be complicit in her senselessness, would not stand idly by as she thrust herself into harm's way, neglected to care for herself in some misguided fit of pique.

            He took himself off to the study, where he summoned a servant to bring him a tray of whatever had been served for dinner and a jar of Rista's salve, as well as to retrieve him a fresh shirt from his room aboard the _Strahl._ In the meantime, he indulged in a glass of bourbon.

            In the fifteen minutes it had taken for the items he had called for to be procured and brought to him, he had become a different man. Or perhaps he had just found the portions of himself that he had locked away so many years before, becoming the man he was always meant to be, before circumstances had changed him.

            He donned the fresh shirt, wincing at the pull of abused flesh, and caught up the heavy tray. The hallway was deserted, the silence almost oppressive. There was perhaps still a small part of him that regretted that he would likely cause her further upset, but it was overshadowed by the part that recognized that if she wouldn't take care of herself, someone else ought to take up that mantle for her.

            Balancing the tray on one hand, he turned the doorknob silently and eased open the door. The lamp at the bedside was burning low, the only light in a room otherwise wreathed in shadow. The covers draping the massive bed were tangled, as if its occupant had spent the last several hours thrashing restlessly. She was curled up in the corner of the bed, as if she sought to avoid notice even in sleep, huddled beneath a twisted sheet, only partially covered. The golden glow of the lamp ought to have flattered her complexion - instead she looked pale, washed out, with deep smudges beneath her eyes betraying her lack of restful sleep. A frown had etched itself between her brows, her lips drawn into a fractious expression, her hands curled into fists beneath her chin. In sleep she heaved a wistful sigh, drew her knees up to her chest, and shivered as the movement dislodged the precariously-draped sheet, exposing the smooth slope of her back to the chill of the night air.

            She hadn't thought to light a fire before she'd retired, he noticed irritably. Of course she hadn't; she hadn't even bothered to eat. The little fool needed a keeper; he had no idea how she'd managed alone as long as she had.

            Slowly he set the tray down at the foot of the bed, taking care not to let the plates clatter against the silver. Then he carefully straightened the tangled covers, easing them over her to ward off the cold in hopes of vanquishing her pitiful shivers. At last he carried a chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed and reclaimed the tray.

            It wasn't until he had removed the silver covers from the plates that she began to stir, lured into wakefulness by the rich scent of fresh bread, wafting wispy white curls of steam into the air. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, rubbing away the remnants of sleep like a child, then thrust her arms over her head and pointed her toes, extending her limbs in a trembling stretch until at last she opened her eyes.

            For a moment she stared at him, uncomprehending, as if perhaps she thought she might still be caught in the grip of a waking dream - or a nightmare, most likely, given the strangled sound that burst from her throat as she jerked upright, clutching the covers to her chin.

            "Get out!" she gasped.

            "I don't take orders, you obnoxious child, I _give_ them," he retorted, sliding the tray onto the bed beside her. "I took the liberty of calling for supper. Eat."

            The snap of anger in his voice surprised her; her brows winged skyward - she considered the tray suspiciously, as if he might've poisoned the food.

            "No, thank you," she said primly, turning her pert little nose up at the offering.

            His teeth clenched, his jaw tight with strain. "It wasn't a request," he hissed.

            " _I'm - not - hungry_ ," she hissed back, eyes narrowed to slits.

            " _I - don't - bloody - care_." The words scraped harshly out of him; he barely resisted the urge to throttle her. He had no words to explain to her the odd sensation that had seized his heart when he'd first seen the stark outline of her ribs through her skin, had realized she'd missed more than a few meals in her lifetime. She could hardly afford to miss more, especially when they were readily available and freely offered.

            He sighed heavily, pinched the bridge of his nose, strove for a more amiable expression. As angry as he was with her, igniting her own fury was hardly the way to go about gaining her cooperation. "You require sustenance. You cannot live by will alone."

            Doubtfully, she examined the tray once more. "I'd really rather not." But her stomach gave a betraying rumble and her pale cheeks flooded pink. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

            "Penelo," he said with silky menace. "I swear I will cram your supper down your throat until I am satisfied."

            Whatever she glimpsed in his expression made her blanch; one arm emerged from beneath the covers to snatch up a yeasty roll. She tore at it with her teeth, chewing and swallowing mechanically.

            "A good start," he acknowledged frostily.

            She glared; her fingers curled reflexively around the roll, crushing the soft bread to a doughy mass. She stared at the mangled roll in her hands, as if shocked by what she had wrought. Her shoulders snapped straight; with a furious breath she lobbed the roll at his head. He caught it easily, unfazed by the attack.

            "You've no right to be angry with me!" she snapped.

            "Someone has to save you from your own idiocy," he chided, unmoved by her fit of temper. He nodded to the tray. "Continue."

            "I'm not a child," she muttered irritably.

            "You could have fooled me," he rebuked. "You will not eat unless forced, you are given to sulking, prone to temper tantrums and throwing food," he said, ticking off her sins on his fingers.

            "Do forgive me," she said with poisonous sweetness, "for taking exception to being used."

            "You used me in return; we're even."

            Her agitated shifting quite nearly upset the tray; the dishes clattered noisily, slid around precariously. "We are not! If you believe I will ever forgive you for that, you are mad!"

            "I'm not here to beg your pardon. I've tried that already; you refused. Only a fool would attempt the same thing again and again expecting a different result. I am not such a fool." He gestured to the tray once more. "My interest lies in ensuring that you remain in good health, as it seems you are failing to see to it yourself."

            "It's no concern of yours," she muttered, although she plucked another roll from the tray.

            "It is when your failure to consider the consequences of your actions jeopardizes the rest of us." He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers. "Are you even _aware_ that you were nearly killed today?"

            "We _all_ were," she said in exasperation.

            "Not," he said tightly, "due to carelessness." When she made no response, he continued. "Or perhaps it wasn't carelessness at all."

            She froze, utterly and entirely. And he knew that she had considered it, had weighed the blessed oblivion of death against the incredible burden of soldiering on through life as she had been these last years. She dropped the roll, pressed her hands over her eyes, and heaved a sigh.

            "I won't put anyone else at risk," she said at last, but her voice was so weary, as if it carried the weight of the world in it. "I'm not so selfish as that."

            He wasn't concerned for anyone else; he was concerned only for her. So much had happened in such a short period of time; she had purchased so much of their success thus far with her secrets and her pride, and had been repaid only in shame and humiliation.

            She swallowed hard, awkwardly tugging at the covers that had slipped down, exposing her slim shoulders. In jerky motions, she reached for the tray itself, settling it across her lap and seizing the utensils as if they were weapons, attacking the food like it was an enemy to be conquered.

            The air was thick between them, rife with a tension he knew not how to defuse. Instead he took refuge in an inane comment. "You really ought to wear a nightdress. You'd kicked off the covers when I came in."

            She slanted him an assessing glance. "For the last three years I haven't even had a bed. What would possibly make you think I would possess nightclothes?" She scoffed as if baffled by his idiocy. He suppressed a wince at his own thoughtlessness. Small wonder her pride had mattered so much - it was all she had left. 

            She pushed the tray away. "I'm done. You're absolved of any further obligation." Her voice was flat, deadened, and he knew she had not sated her appetite - he had spoiled it. Her shoulders slumped; she pressed the fingers of one hand to her temple, her eyelids fluttered, drooped.

            "You're not an obligation," he said, finally.

            "No," she said bitterly. "I'm a wager."

            He wanted to deny it, but bit back the instinctive response of _it wasn't like that_ , because, for a few days, it had been exactly like that. He could hardly fault her for her bitterness over it. Odd, how her bowed head affected him more profoundly than a slew of tears would have. But then, she would not have let him see her cry - his actions might have stripped her of a good deal of her pride, but what remained she clung to tenaciously.

            With a sigh, he collected the tray, setting it aside. Perhaps he ought to have left her in peace - but instead he settled at the edge of the bed.

            She flicked her hand at him, with a touch of that careless arrogance she must've learned in her younger days. "You may _go_ ," she said sharply.

            But something in her posture harped upon his conscience; the weariness in her face wasn't merely over something as simple as lost sleep. And he said, "You don't want to be alone."

            "That's hardly relevant," she countered. "Even if it _were_ true, how could you imagine I'd want to be subjected to _your_ company?"

            True enough, he supposed, but he braced his palms on the bed and said, "Who else have you got?"

            Her shoulders slumped further; she wilted like a flower at the reminder, and he felt just the tiniest bit cruel. Shoving the uncomfortable feeling ruthlessly aside, he grated, "Lie down. On your stomach."

            "I beg your pardon?" She clutched at the covers like some sort of scandalized damsel, with no regard for the fact that a few hours earlier she'd clutched at his shoulders in just such a manner as he'd taken her against the tiled wall of the bathroom.

            He lifted a small jar of salve from the table where he'd placed it, held it aloft. "You've got wounds that require tending, as you saw fit to flee to your room before you could be properly patched up."

            "I don't require your help to do so!" In a flurry of movement, she pulled at the covers to separate the sheet from the blankets, holding the sheet to her chest in a desperate claim to modesty. The blanket went flying; she scrambled for the far side of the bed. With a sigh of resignation, he seized her ankle, inexorably pulling her back even as her nails raked the mattress seeking purchase.

            He affected a bored expression just in time for her to shoot a furious glance over her shoulder; she'd ended up tumbled onto her stomach, just as he'd intended.

            "Let go," she ground out in a seething voice.

            He patted her bottom just to irritate her. She buried her face in the mattress and shrieked her outrage, her hands clenching into fists. Before she could recover herself enough to make another attempt at escape, he planted his palm on her back, pressing her down. "Enough," he said. "I'll only catch you if you flee. Resign yourself, pet."

            The twisted sheet was draped over her waist, her back and legs bared. He could see the tension settle between her shoulder blades as she considered his statement, watched her jaw tighten, her shoulders draw up. But at last her breath shuddered out on a melancholy sigh, her fingers uncurled. She thrust her arms beneath her head, pillowing her face upon them. "Fine," she said at last. "Just get it over with and go." She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, as if bracing herself against the touch of his hands.

            Carefully he removed the lid from the jar; the sweet, vaguely herbal scent of the salve wafted to his nose. It was pleasant enough; neither oily nor heavy. It might sting a bit, but her wounds would heal more readily with it. He swiped a finger into the jar, collecting a dollop of the salve. There was a thin cut on her calf; he smoothed a thin layer of salve over it. She flinched as he gently affixed a clean bandage.

            Another cut on her upper arm, this one a bit deeper. It looked red and angry, the skin sore and tender. It would probably scar, this one, an eternal reminder of how her life had nearly been snuffed out. He waved the thought away, slicked another pass of salve over the wound and applied the next bandage a bit tighter, in the hopes that the torn flesh would knit cleanly.

            It took only a few minutes to treat the rest of her wounds - she'd been spared any real damage. He ought to have popped the lid back on the jar and taken his leave, but she was still so tense. She might find sleep yet, but it would be the same she had been in when he'd entered - restless, agonized, probably plagued with nightmares.

            Instead he rubbed a bit of the salve between his hands, then curled his fingers around one of her dainty feet. She popped up with a gasp; he pressed the heel of his palm between her shoulder blades, urging her back down.

            "I'm told this stuff is good for aches and pains as well," he said.

            "I don't - I don't have any," she protested, her foot jerking reflexively in his hold. She had ticklish feet; he was oddly charmed.

            "Liar," he accused. "Of course you do - how could you not?" But in deference to her ticklishness, he instead slid his fingers higher, around her ankle, fingers pressing firmly as they traveled up her calf. The heat of her skin warmed the salve, absorbing it and coaxing out its herbal scent. Her muscles were knotted, but the skillful application of his fingers eased free the tension, and she made a helpless sound of relief.

            "Better?" he asked, a touch of satisfaction coloring his voice.

            She ducked her head, sulkily muttering, " _Shut up_." But beneath his hands her muscles had relaxed minutely, her wrath fading into acquiescence. Her eyes were no longer squeezed tightly shut, her expression no longer pinched with displeasure. Now her face was serene, her inky lashes kissing her cheeks. With a bit of nourishment in her she'd recovered a bit of her color, no longer looking quite so pale and wan.

            Within minutes she was on the cusp of sleep, lulled into a dreamlike twilight realm by the smooth, even strokes of his hands along her soft limbs, across her back and shoulders. And she made a tiny sound of discontent in her throat, murmured in a mournful, whisper-soft voice, "Why can't you just let me hate you?"

            He stilled, his hands resting flat upon the small of her back, wondering if she had expected some sort of response to that - but no, she had already surrendered to sleep, her breaths deep and even. Gently he brushed her mussed hair over her shoulder, pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. She would not have appreciated it had she been awake, but in sleep she mumbled something unintelligible and shifted closer to the heat of his body. He considered draping the covers over her once again - but probably she'd just end up kicking them off, as she had earlier.

            She'd said before that she hadn't had a bed in three years. Vaan had said once that the other street children had stolen her blankets. Probably she'd grown accustomed to huddling together for warmth in the night. The one night he had spent with her, before he had urged her to cuddle against his side, she had affected much the same pose as she had tonight - curled into a ball, as tightly as she could manage. He hadn't liked seeing it; it had made his chest ache. And if he left her tonight, she'd probably do the same unconsciously; cast off the blankets, her body searching for the comforting press of another, the warmth that would reassure her that she was safe and sheltered.

            He carefully eased his hand beneath her head to shove a pillow beneath it. She pressed her face into the downy softness, curling her arms around it. In her sleep, she burrowed into the covers, twisting onto her side, and wriggling backwards - until her back touched his chest. Then she sighed and went lax, tucking her hands beneath her chin. Darling girl; so determined to keep him at arm's length in her waking hours, unconsciously seeking the opposite while asleep.

            She'd not likely thank him for his courtesy in the morning, but she would almost assuredly rest easier tonight if he stayed. At the very least it would be awkward; she was draped across the bed almost diagonally. Still, he shoved the pillows littering the head of the bed aside, shrugged out of his shirt, and stretched himself out beside her. His feet hung over the edge of the bed. Dissatisfied with that, he slid closer to her to share her pillow, drawing up his knees to curl his body around hers, easing his arm beneath her.

            Less comfortable than he was used to, perhaps, but the whisper of her bare skin against his, the silkiness of her hair on his shoulder were pleasant, soothing. Somehow it was satisfying just to hear her gentle breaths, feel the warmth of her body on his own. Just before he, too, fell asleep, came the disquieting realization that he could easily grow accustomed to this.

\--

            The plaintive cry of  a gull woke Penelo from a sound slumber. She could feel the sunlight warming the room, knew she'd have to rise, but she was so warm and comfortable she didn't want to consider moving for at least a few more minutes. Of late, she'd generally awoken shivering, having kicked off the blankets in her sleep - but today she'd awoken in a cozy nest of them, their weight substantial, comforting.

            She might've drifted back into the restful sleep she had enjoyed - if the blankets hadn't moved of their own accord. Her eyes flashed open, horrified to find Balthier's face not two inches from her own. As if he sensed her sudden tension even in his sleep, his fingers meandered up her bare shoulder into her hair, sliding possessively into the cool strands to cup her head and pull her closer.

            Her heart leaped into her throat. As carefully as she could manage, she eased away, separating their tangled limbs. He'd had one arm thrust beneath her, the other draped over her waist. His leg had thrust itself between both of hers, wrapping himself around her like a child might with a stuffed animal. She held her breath and slipped from the circle of his arms - he made only a huff of displeasure at her absence, fingers briefly searching for her until at last he subsided once more into sleep.

            Her discarded clothing was still where she'd left it; she wrestled it on, fumbling in her fury. Decent at last, she returned to the bed, placed her hands upon his back and shoved with all of her might.

            He rolled right off the bed, landing with a thud and a muttered expletive. Shortly thereafter he pulled himself off the floor groggily, rubbing his head.

            "Get out," she hissed, "of my room."

            Surprise etched his features. "You pushed me out of bed?"

            "You shouldn't have been _in_ it!"

            "Damnation, woman," he snapped. "You might have simply woken me."

            She threw up her hands in consternation. "You've never shown any propensity to listen before; why should I expect it now?" She jabbed a finger at the door behind her. " _Out_!"

            His face schooled itself into that intractable mask he so frequently wore. "I thought we had established already that I do not take orders," he said tightly.

            She could be just as stubborn - more so, if she chose. She squared her shoulders, tilted her chin to an imperious angle. "Fine." She danced backwards a few steps. " _I'll_ go."

            "No, you won't - we're not done!" He was struggling into his shirt.

            She snorted. "That's a matter of opinion, and mine's the only one that matters."

            "For the love of - damn it, Penelo, _wait_."

            But she was already slipping out the door before he had even made it around the bed - and he could hardly go tearing through the house after her.

            He thrust his fingers through his hair, heaving a sigh. Damned fickle female - cozying up to him so sweetly in sleep, murderously angry with him upon waking. She'd put him in a foul mood; he stomped out of her room and down the hallway towards the common room, hoping it was yet early enough that he'd find her before she could reconvene with the other members of their party, seeking sanctuary in their numbers.

             He caught a glimpse of her bright hair disappearing into the common room, skidded furiously after her through the open doorway.

            "If you think -" But the words died on his lips - she was not alone. Several pairs of eyes jerked towards him, baffled by the livid tenor of his voice. Penelo was, in fact, the only one who was _not_ staring at him. Instead she sauntered to a chair at the far side of the room, dropped into it, and turned her face resolutely away from him - a direct cut.

            He seethed inwardly. She examined her nails, pointedly ignoring him.

            Ashe cleared her throat awkwardly. "If we think...?" she prompted.

            "Nothing," he ground out. "Unimportant." The quiet menace in the words made Ashe's eyes widen.

            "Well, then." She cast a searching glance around the room. "Now that we've all gathered, there's news to share. Half an hour ago, a missive arrived - from Larsa. He had received word of Reddas' death." Her eyes strayed briefly to Balthier. "Of Cid's as well. He says he can no longer make allowances for Vayne's actions."

            "He will aid us, then?" Basch inquired.

            A brief nod from Ashe. "He says that Vayne has plans to destroy Rabanastre. He awaits our arrival; he knows he must take up the fight against his brother."

            "Where?" Vaan asked.

            Ashe blew out a shuddering breath, her face lined with concern. "Aboard the sky fortress _Bahamut_."


	19. Chapter 19

Balthier hoped Penelo was pleased with herself; her break for freedom had earned her perhaps a few hours of peace - or more, if this was to be the end of them. Damned contrary chit. Why the hell couldn't she be like any other woman of his acquaintance? It would certainly make his efforts to gain her understanding that much easier. She would sit and listen tearfully, make a few pitiable noises designed to spear him with guilt, but ultimately profess her forgiveness, avow her belief in his sincerity. His thoughtless behavior had never seen him dismissed before; there was simply no reason for her to be so bloody difficult.

            Briefly he tried to imagine Penelo crying prettily into a handkerchief, offering him a watery smile. Somehow he couldn't quite manage it - he doubted she could achieve that biddable, meek demeanor if she tried. It was one of the things he'd liked best about her.

            Just now it was the bane of his existence.

            He leaned back in his chair, scrubbing one hand over his face. _Why_ was he agonizing over her? He stole a glance over his shoulder, caught her gazing wistfully out the window, expression unreadable. He sighed - he was agonizing over her because he'd been a right arse, and she hadn't deserved such shabby treatment. He hadn't wanted her to take to heart the belief that he had seduced her to win a wager, that she truly was as invisible, as interchangeable as she'd always felt. That blasted bet had already scarred her, damaged a part of her that had previously remained pure and unbroken, untouchable. It had hurt him to have corrupted that last bastion of hope. Dreams had died in her eyes when Vaan had made his confession - not dreams of _him_ , per se, but the last of that dewey-eyed innocence, all of her wishes for a brighter future; they had gone up in smoke in a single careless instant.

            If she had been like any other woman he had known, he wouldn't find himself in such a state. Instead, she'd just _had_ to be noble and courageous, selfless, determined. She'd had to be _better_ , and that was his problem - he couldn't bear that he had made her feel _less_ than she was.

            What a dreadful mess - she had afflicted him with an overburdened conscience, and she didn't even care to witness what she had wrought. She didn't care in the slightest, not even enough to take pleasure in his guilt.

            " _Balthier_ ," Fran hissed.

            He started, pulled from the twists and tangles of his disordered mind by the sharp whisper. Fran's gaze was fixed firmly ahead, but in her eyes glittered a censorious judgment he'd not earned from her in years. Shame scalded him once again; it was as if the years had rolled back and she thought him once again the selfish, callow boy she'd taken under her wing. It had taken years to earn her respect, and only moments to dash it to pieces.

            "Now is not the time," she muttered. "Save your regrets for a later time, if one should come."

            But the very fact that it might not was what had troubled him so - that this might be their end, and Penelo would go to it with that blank resignation upon her face, having spent her short life swallowing sorrow after sorrow, offering bits of her soul with both hands and receiving only bitter disappointment in return. She had come to this point empty, devoid of hope, but prepared to offer up the last bit of herself - her _life_ \- should the need arise. And she looked as though her sacrifice was not so very great, a paltry offering, unworthy of notice. As though she were merely biding her time, whiling away her last hours, weary of life.

            "You have made your bed," Fran said ruthlessly, as though sensing the bent of his thoughts. "And now you must lie in it. You cannot unring a bell, Balthier - I had thought you would have taken that lesson before now."

            He had, he had learned that long ago - but he had spent the last several years doing as he pleased, and never once experiencing regrets, for he had thought them a supreme waste of time. His unfamiliarity with the emotion merely made the pain of it sharper.

            "She wouldn't allow even an explanation," he muttered resentfully.

            "And why ought she?" Fran countered. "To ease your conscience?"

            "No," he said acidly. "For the gods' sake, Fran - perhaps I deserve to suffer, but _that_ ," he said,  with a subtle flick of his wrist to indicate Penelo, " _that_ I cannot abide."

            Fran turned her head slightly to steal a glance at Penelo. Her brows lifted; she rounded on Balthier with renewed interest.

            "You care for her," she accused softly.

            "What? No. No, I -" but he lapsed into silence as the words fell false and heavy upon his tongue. At last, he muttered, "Perhaps, in a way." A very small way; a way that existed only so long as he had to endure her continued presence. Surely it would have faded had they parted ways. Surely it would yet fade, did they survive this ordeal.

            Fran sighed heavily, shook her head in disappointment. "Foolish humes," she murmured to herself. "So burdened with lessons learned too late, and yet determined to repeat your same mistakes."

            He made an irritated sound in his throat. "I wish you wouldn't lump me in with the rest of them," he muttered.

            "When have you proved yourself different?" she challenged. "You've collected so many regrets already, and you will accumulate yet more with your defiance. You cannot see the path unraveling before you, and so you have doomed yourself to walk in circles, repeating the same actions, gathering up the same regrets." She speared him with an assessing glance. "How many regrets will you give to others before you muster up the courage to proceed down the unknown path? How many regrets will you give to _her_?" She jerked her head subtly towards Penelo.

            He didn't know how he was meant to respond to that, what she wanted to hear from him.

            He was saved any further awkwardness when the intercom blared into life.

            "This is Larsa Solidor - _Strahl_ , do you receive me?"

            Balthier fumbled for the communicator. "For the love of - are you _trying_ to kill us?" he snarled into it.

            Larsa's clipped voice rang through in response; "This frequency is secure - I've generated a scrambling shield; we'll not be overheard."

            At least the child had been thorough. "I suppose you've got a plan, then?"

           "Indeed. You're approaching from the east; I've managed to obscure your location from the sensors temporarily. Give it a few moments; I should be able to grab hold of you and guide you in."

            "Just guide us to the nearest dock," Balthier said.

            "I'm afraid it's not quite that simple," Larsa responded. "The _Bahamut_ has well over five hundred docks - she's a _fortress_. The largest airship ever built. Without guiding the _Strahl_ to the correct dock myself, you might end up wandering the ship for days. You ought to see her just over the next rise."

            They crested at last over the cliffs that marked the edge of the Dalmasca Estersands, and Balthier barely suppressed his sound of surprise. The _Bahamut_ was so massive, he wasn't sure how it was even possible for it to remain suspended in the air as it was - he'd seen _palaces_ that weren't so impressive.

            Dear gods - had they attempted to take it alone, there wouldn't have been even a prayer of success. It had to house at least a hundred thousand soldiers - perhaps more. Vayne was in there, somewhere, but like as not they wouldn't have ever found him.

            "I'm bringing you up to the dock just outside the lift," Larsa said. "It's Vayne's private dock; you'll have no trouble. I'll need you to give over the controls."

            Under any other circumstance, Balthier would have been reluctant to cede control of his ship to anyone. But Larsa would guide them right where they needed to be; they would have to trust in his sincerity, his devotion to bringing peace to Ivalice - or they would all be dead before they stepped from the ship.   

            "Balthier?" the intercom crackled. "The code - I'll need it to override the _Strahl's_ navigation systems remotely."

            "Right. Right." Balthier blew out an overwhelmed breath. He gave the code, and waited for the system to display the request for access, then input the command to accept it. Moments later, the _Strahl_ 's course underwent a minute adjustment, heading towards the center of the massive sky fortress.

            "I've got you," Larsa said at last. "Two minutes, thirteen seconds to dock - I shall await you there; I suggest you make your preparations immediately." The connection dropped; the occupants of the _Strahl_ surged to their feet, collecting their weapons.

            There was the sound of the glossair rings disengaging, the fortress' landing field had grabbed them up, guiding them to their destination. At last, the _Strahl_ docked, settling into place easily. They gathered at the door, weapons at the ready - the door opened, revealing Larsa, his hands clasped behind his back, expression too grave for one yet so young.

            He cleared his throat awkwardly. "My thanks for your timely arrival," he said. "I regret that my failure to acknowledge Vayne's atrocities has brought us to this point."

            "Larsa," Penelo began sympathetically. "It's all right - you wanted to believe the best of him."

            "And how many have suffered for my refusal to see reason?" he asked. "How many might have been spared?" His expression faltered; he turned on his heel, gesturing for them to follow.

            "You are not to blame for his actions," Ashe said as she fell into step alongside him.

            "Perhaps not," he acknowledged, "but I hold myself responsible nonetheless. Failing to act makes me just as culpable as if I had carried out his actions myself." He sighed, rubbed at the worry lines that had grooved into his forehead. "He is my only family - I had hoped that he could be made to see the error of his ways. It has since become apparent that there is no solution but this. Ivalice's peace must be purchased with my brother's death."

            The corridor they had entered was deserted; Larsa stopped before the lift and punched a code into the keypad. From behind the closed doors, there was the _whoosh_ of the platform descending to reach them. At last the platform arrived; a bell chimed, the doors opened to admit them.

            "He's just up here," Larsa said in a thin voice. "He's been there all day."

            "You don't have to come," Penelo said, placing her hand on Larsa's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "You've done enough. More than enough."

            For a moment his face showed a trace of gratefulness for her kindness, her understanding. But he steeled himself against it, shoring up his courage. "No," he said. "I cannot stand by any longer and let others shoulder the distasteful tasks - when this is done, I must take up the mantle of leadership; I cannot be an effective leader do I hide in the shadows from hardship. I owe my full support to Archadia, to Ivalice. I cannot falter now."

            Decisively he stepped into the lift, the wretched resolution on his face startling on a boy of his tender years. The rest of them climbed in beside him. The doors closed; the lift began its swift ascent towards their destination - Vayne's private deck.  

            When the doors opened again, it was to a large, sunlit room, lined with windows on three sides. The Dalmascan Estersands stretched out before them; Rabanastre loomed in the distance, the conquered city unaware of what impending danger threatened. Vayne stood with his back to them, his hands clasped before him, peering out the window, muttering to himself.

            "Raze it to the ground," he hissed in a voice that seethed with rage and lunacy. "Burn it to ashes. Piteous life transformed into a beautiful, violent death - better than they deserve."

            "He...he reminds me of Cid," Ashe whispered. "As if he's afflicted by madness, but..."

            "Not madness," Balthier said. "Venat - the creature fled here, to Vayne."

            The air around Vayne blurred, shimmered - Vayne's head snapped around, unnaturally quick, piercing them with a fierce glare. "You - you lot have ruined _everything_ ," he said in a harsh growl. His body swiveled, twisted to face them, his features contorted into a snarl of rage.

            "I had such plans!" Vayne howled, clenching his hands before him. "Such magnificent plans - I could have freed the whole of Ivalice from suffering, but for _you_ and your ridiculous machinations!"

            "How?" Larsa asked. "With death and destruction? Death isn't _freedom_ , brother - it is an end; it solves nothing. If you could but turn yourself from this path -"

            "Death is the purest relief from suffering, the greatest gift Ivalice can receive!" Vayne shouted. "With those shards I could have made it a reality, released the whole of Ivalice from its suffering, ushered in a new era of glory!" He stalked across the floor towards them, his fury palpable, burning in the air separating them. "I ought to have known that they would corrupt you, Larsa - you were always the weakest of us. The mistake was mine - I should have freed you from the bonds of your mortal prison long ago."

            The zip of an arrow slicing through the air; it snagged the side of Vayne's cheek; drawing a line of blood, a morbid half-grin etched along the side of his face. Balthier turned his head, gaped at Penelo, who stood with her weapon at the ready, already having notched another arrow.

            "That was a warning," she said stiffly, acidly, "against maligning your betters. Shut your mouth or I will gladly do it for you."

            Vayne gawked at her in disbelief; likely it was the first time in recent memory anyone had dared to speak to him so, had dared attack him. His eyes narrowed  upon her face, searching her tight features, her furious, determined eyes.

            "No," he said, swiping at the blood that dripped from his cheek. "Not you; it couldn't be." Then he threw his head back, roaring with bloodcurdling laughter. "You filthy harlot - and I had thought to offer for you!"

            She shuddered delicately in revulsion. "You would have been refused," she sneered. "There is _nothing_ that could have induced me to accept an offer from _you_."

            "You foolish child, you cannot refuse an Emperor - my will is _law_." Before the words were out, another arrow went singing through the air, slicing through his other cheek, completing the macabre smile. Blood smeared his chin, dripped onto his chest, staining the rich fabric of his shirt. He snarled with pain, with rage, his face twisting into a feral scowl.

            "I think you'll find the lady does as she pleases," Balthier said, with just a touch of irony in his tone.

            "She's no lady. She's a strumpet, a whore -" Vayne wiped at his face in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

            Balthier leveled the muzzle of his gun at Vayne's head. "Please, by all means, continue. I should dearly love to plug a bullet into your skull."

            "Venat!" Vayne shouted. "Defend me from this _rabble_!"

            The air again shimmered, the rogue god materializing in a burst of smoke - but instead of drawing around Vayne in protection, it slithered away through the air, abandoning Vayne as it had abandoned Cid in his time of need. As it floated across the room, a guttural whisper rent the silence, grating on their ears with its chill disdain - "You are a disappointment, Vayne. You might have been great - instead you are nothing." The strange smoke that comprised Venat's form slipped through the closed doors of the lift and out of sight.

            "Pity," Balthier murmured snidely. "That's the risk of aligning with capricious gods; they are ever wont to go their own way. Of course, now that the Sun Cryst has shattered, their hold on Ivalice is no more. You've been deserted; deemed a lost cause."

            The satisfaction in Balthier's voice had Vayne's spine snapping straight with fury. Magicks swirled in his palms, his only defense against them. He swiped out, sending a slew of ice crystals sweeping across the room. Balthier leapt out of the way in time, but Larsa was frozen in place - he had never seen battle like this, his own brother turned against him.

            With a shout of alarm, Penelo crashed into Larsa, shoving him aside - but the shards speared her side in his place. Her cry of pain brought Balthier spinning around, his attention drawn away from Vayne, who was gearing up for another blast. The others had leapt into the fray; they would buy time.

            "Little fool," he hissed, stalking towards her, blind to the battle going on around him. "Don't be so bloody noble - it'll get you killed." He jerked a strip of linen off his shirt.

            She warded him off with one hand, her teeth clenched against the pain, her other hand pressed to the wound, where blood dripped freely. "D-doesn't matter," she managed. "O-only Ashe and Larsa are important." Her knees wobbled, collapsed from beneath her - he caught her, gently lowering her to the ground. She seized his hands in hers, whispering a demand. " _Get them out_."

            Her lips were turning blue, her fingers freezing on his. A shard of ice was lodged in her side - she was going hypothermic. But they'd have larger problems attempting to remove it; she'd lose blood too swiftly. Gently he dabbed at the wound, trying to ascertain its severity, but she flinched even at the careful prodding.

            This had to be finished quickly - or she would die. He stroked his fingers through her hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

            "I'm going to give you his head," he whispered. Bloodthirsty wench - she nodded unsteadily, made a shooing motion with her hands, sank back with a weary sigh. Larsa dropped to his knees beside her, his eyes wide with fear, his face stark white - indeed, Penelo seemed to be comforting _him_ , gently patting his knee even as Larsa's shaking hands tugged at her shoulders, drawing her head into his lap.

            Balthier's fury was so extreme it was as if everyone else had slowed to a crawl, as if he alone were moving at a normal speed; he saw a burst of fire, dodged the lash of flame easily. Vayne's guard was up, deflecting a blow from Basch - but Balthier slipped between them as Vayne recoiled, the muzzle of his weapon tucking beneath Vayne's chin.

            Time resumed as Vayne's eyes widened in shock, his mouth dropping open on a horrified gasp; Balthier fired, the sharp report of the gun defeaning. Vayne jerked, the gory mess of mingled brain, blood, flesh, and bone exploded backwards, splattering the windows. Slowly Vayne's body crumpled to the floor, like so much rubbish.

            Ended. Balthier had neither the time nor the inclination to savor the victory. He slipped his bloodied weapon back in its holster, heedless of the mess it caused, turned back towards Penelo. Larsa was still kneeling, holding her hand in one of his, pressing the other over her wound, chanting some sort of healing spell. Penelo had lapsed into unconsciousness, her fingers limp in Larsa's, though the boy clasped them so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

            Balthier hadn't made it two paces before the massive ship lurched, tipping at a dangerous angle. They scrambled for purchase desperately, struggling to remain standing, resisting the force that would have sent them reeling.

            "It's the nethicite," Larsa breathed in horror. "It's no good any longer; the ship's power reserves are depleted, and there's nothing left to fuel her. She's going to crash - we've got to get out!"

            Ashe was staring out the window, her eyes full of despair. "Rabanastre is doomed - we're heading straight for it," she said brokenly, her shoulders slumping.

            Balthier didn't care for any of that - he cared only for the blood slicking the floor where Penelo lay, still and white as a sheet, the fact that Larsa's distraction had cost her precious time.

            "Larsa, you heal her," he snapped, drawing the boy's attention once more. "Don't stop, not even for a moment, until you get her to a doctor. Understood?" He eased his way across the rocking floor, knelt to press Larsa's hand over her wound. "Firm pressure, have you got that? _Firm_ , I said - she's unconscious, she can't feel it. I'm going to lift her now, I need you to rise with me."

            He slipped his hands beneath Penelo's shoulders and knees, carefully lifting her off the floor. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Instantly her blood soaked through his clothing, sticking his shirt to his stomach.

            "Basch, I need you to take her. Get her back to the _Strahl_. For the gods' sake, take care of her," he said, transferring her to Basch's arms. Extracting himself from between Larsa and Basch was a neat trick; he drew away, satisfied that they had hold of her.

            He punched the button that would summon the lift, on edge until the doors at last opened to admit them.

            "Fran, with me," he commanded as they descended to the lower level, spilling out of the doors as the ship rocked again.

            "Wait!" Ashe cried. "Where are you going? You cannot think to stay here!"

            "Someone's got to get this behemoth away from the city. She's coming down, but she needn't come down upon Rabanastre," he called over his shoulder. "Get out while you can; the _Strahl_ awaits. We will find another way."

            "What if - what if there _isn't_ one?" she asked, her voice quavering.

            "Ah, princess, that was always a risk," he said in a careless tone. "Get clear of here - this whole endeavor will have been for naught if you go down with the ship." When she yet failed to follow the others, he snapped, " _Now_!" in a tone that made even the indomitable princess leap to do his bidding. She raced down the corridor after the others, disappeared towards the dock.

            "Will this be a good end or a bad end, do you think?" Fran asked blithely.

            " _Any_ end is a bad end, in my opinion," he responded. "But I suppose that if this _is_ the end, then we might as well go down as heroes."

            Fran snorted indelicately. "I never thought to see the day," she said.

            "What?" he inquired, distracted, as he searched the ship's directory for the location of its engine room. "The day where I might be moved to heroics?"

            She shook her head, the ghost of a smile crossing her face. "No; you've always had heroism in you," she said.

            "What, then?"

            "The day you cared more for someone else than yourself," she mused. "She might've died, but for your quick thinking." She pointed out the engine room on the map, said, "There. Let's be quick about this, then."

            They hastened down the corridor towards the lift, down the thirty or so flights to the engine room.

            "She might die regardless," he said in a low voice. He didn't bother to deny Fran's supposition; she knew better. She had always known better. And she had come with him on what was very likely a death mission without even a shadow of argument - she was owed his honesty.

            Fran considered his statement for a moment, said at last, "I don't believe she will. She's made of sterner stuff. Will you seek her out, should we manage an escape?"

            "No," he said immediately, his mouth compressing into a firm line as if to bite back the bitterness the word caused. "No, I won't - you were right. All along, as you've always been. I ought to have left her alone."

            They ducked into the engine room - chaos had erupted here, the ship's lurching had dislodged cables, jammed bolts, overheated engines. An override - he needed an override. There was no fixing this madness; there wasn't the time. But if he could manage to use the last of the auxiliary power to divert the ship, it would spare the city.

            The speakers set into the walls of the room crackled, vibrating with sound. "This is Ashelia Dalmasca," Ashe's voice rang out, clear and proud.

            "And I am Larsa Solidor," Larsa's grim voice followed. "My brother Vayne is dead. As his heir, I am the Emperor of Archadia. The war is done. We have reached a peace agreement between our nations - let both sides lay down your arms immediately."

            Ashe had the microphone again - "It is over; peace is restored. We are free."

            They were broadcasting on all frequencies, hoping to stem the tides of war before they could be fully unleashed - the fortress had housed thousands upon thousands of troops that might even now be fleeing the sinking ship in droves, preparing for a battle they expected to break out.

            Balthier glanced around the room; of course it was too deep within the ship, there were no windows by which he might orient himself, determine which direction they faced. "Blast it - which way do we need to turn this beast?"

            Fran flicked her hand toward the doors leading out into the corridor. "Rabanastre lies there, to the west; we'll need to turn her east."

            "Can you shut off those engines?" he asked, indicating them with a wave. "It ought to save us enough power to -"

            Once more, the speakers flared to life, interrupting him, even as Fran hurried to do as he bid. "Balthier, Fran - I don't know if you can hear this. I hope you can. Penelo will recover, thanks to you." Ashe's voice held a wealth of relief, joy. "Thank you. Thank you - we owe you more than can ever be repaid." Her breath caught on a sob. "Now get yourselves out of there!" 

            Balthier bowed his head, covering his mouth with his hand, unspeakably relieved. The ship jerked, stuttered, and then surged _backwards_ , tumbling him to the floor. The engines roared, the scant remaining power diverted solely to the ones that would drive the ship away from the city.

            They had done it - she would still crash, but it would be into the empty Estersands, _not_ into Rabanastre. He lifted himself up, staggering across the unstable floor to where Fran sprawled where she, too, had been sent tumbling. Carefully he lifted her to her feet, helping her to reorient herself.

            "You heard the princess," he said. "Let's get moving, shall we?"

            Fran dusted herself off, shaking her head at him with a wry grin. "Fool of a pirate," she said, not unkindly. And together they ran, for safety, for freedom.


	20. Chapter 20

_PART II_  
Rozarrian outlying territories  
One year later

 

            In the year that had passed, it seemed all of Ivalice had improved. Cities had expanded, better trade routes had been established - life even amongst the lesser territories had grown prosperous once more. During the war, there had been a lingering feeling of unease in the air, as if even the remotest parts of the world might be pulled into the thick of war at any moment. Now that tension had eased, and it was as if the whole of Ivalice had breathed a massive sigh of relief - life had returned to what it was meant to be, full and ripe with promise once more. 

            Although he had not borne witness to the occasion, Balthier had heard of Ashe's recent coronation. Though the proof of her claim had been lost with the rest of the nethicite, she had still been hailed as Dalmasca's undisputed queen; her dedication to setting her kingdom aright before seeing herself crowned had won her the hearts and minds of her people, firmly cementing her right to rule.

           Balthier traveled a bit slower these days - but then, that was to be expected, as he'd left the _Strahl_ in other hands. He and Fran had escaped the wreckage of the _Bahamut_ by the skin of their teeth, commandeering a vessel fleeing the impending crash right from beneath the noses of a couple Archadian soldiers. And in the resulting chaos, they had been more or less invisible in the cloud of escaping ships - but they couldn't fly the trademark vessel of the Imperial army forever, and so they had set her down and abandoned her on the outskirts of Dalmasca's Estersands, making their way on foot instead.

            He could easily have purchased himself another airship, but he would never have felt the same affinity for any other ship as he had for the _Strahl_. And somehow, pirating had lost the luster it had once had; with Cidolfus dead and Archadia freed of Vayne's tyranny, there was no longer anything to outrun, no expectations to thwart, no need for such petty rebellions. He missed the skies, but for the freedom they offered, not for the danger he'd courted in the past. The past that had plagued him was dead and buried. For the most part, at least. There were still occasional twinges of guilt and shame whenever intrusive thoughts of Penelo chanced to pop into his head. He liked to think he was becoming rather adept at forcing them out and away.

            Surprisingly, he found that there was a sort of pleasure in being anonymous - he and Fran had both been assumed dead after the fall of the _Bahamut_ , and neither of them had bothered to correct the misapprehension. It simply wasn't important - they might have claimed their reward from Dalmasca's newly-crowned queen, but they had enough to line their pockets for years without raiding her newly-crowned majesty's coffers. And he rather thought that a noble death was more than he had deserved. So they had made a hero of him - it was well enough; he'd have shed the bounties on his head, escaped the dogging of his footsteps by determined bounty hunters.

            Fran had stuck around with him for a few months, but she had failed to adapt to the slower pace of life. Eventually her patience had worn thin; she had gone off in search of further adventures. He had known she would leave anyway; she had said as much before. But he had gotten the sense that she had been biding her time, expecting that at any moment he might go racing for Rabanastre in search of Penelo. When she had finally left of her own accord, she had given him a lingering look, regarding him like a curiosity - as if he were a sideshow attraction.

            And she had murmured thoughtfully, "I've known many a man to live without a brain in his head, but you, Balthier, are the first man I've seen to live with a heart that beats outside his chest."

            He hadn't been certain what to make of that, and she'd not deigned to explain it to him. So absent a partner, he had spent his time traversing the length and breadth of Ivalice, seeking out all the things he'd missed in his previous travels, passing his days peacefully for the first time in memory.

            Thus it was an utter shock when he turned down a thoroughfare in a small town on the border of Rozarria and Dalmasca to see a familiar figure striding down the road towards him, the wheaten blonde hair unmistakable even at such a distance.

            His feet drew him to a halt, his breath catching in his chest. The crowd was sparse, only a few patrons were about and browsing the wares offered up by the merchants whose stalls littered either side cobblestone path. There was no one to hinder his view, and she was instantly recognizable - but so different from how she had looked a year ago.

            Her hair had been pulled away from her face, tamed with set of silver combs that coaxed the silky locks to tumble down her back. A few wayward strands had slipped free to curl about her face, teasing her cheeks. The last time he had seen her, she had been pale, injured, weak - but now she was hale and healthy, her skin glowing golden, attesting to a great deal of time spent out of doors. She'd lost her former frailty, the consequence of too many missed meals in the past - instead, her figure had filled out to a woman's lushness, all softly rounded curves and sleek, toned muscles.

            Her clothing was clearly costly - a shimmery silk top that bared her midriff, paired with tight, clinging brushed leather pants, both dyed to a pale shade of lavender, and tooled leather ankle boots. Her bow was strapped over her shoulder; glittering bangle bracelets jangled merrily from her right wrist. She lifted her left hand to brush her bangs away from her face - a design created from the skillful application of henna dye climbed from her delicate fingers all the way up to her shoulder, dainty depictions of vines, leaves, flowers blooming a garden upon her skin.

            Light caught, sparkled off a jewel at her navel; he experienced a pang of astonishment - the wicked girl had pierced herself. Whatever he had expected of her, it had not been this - when he had pictured her over the past year, it had always been as the pampered darling of the queen, residing in the palace, swathed in silk gowns and jewels, enjoying peace and security, protected and sheltered. Instead, here she was, walking confidently down the street of a tiny border town, looking like she'd been conjured from his fantasies - bold, lovely, self-possessed.

            His brain refused to accept what his eyes processed. Surely it _couldn't_ be _Penelo_ \- what would she be doing this far out, alone, unescorted? Dressed like _that_? But her bared midriff revealed a long, thin scar, stretching from her hip to her waist. The wound that had nearly killed her; the one she'd sustained shoving Larsa from harm's way - she wore it now like a badge of honor, an accessory like her navel ring, her henna tattoo.

            He knew he was gawking, knew he was embarrassing himself - but his heart had performed a series of alarming palpitations, his feet were still frozen to the ground, unwilling to move from the spot as she approached.

            What would she do? What would she say, to find him alive and well, after all of Ivalice had presumed him to be dead?

            She was nearly upon him, her cornflower blue eyes searching the street before her. They drifted from stall to stall, flickering briefly over the wares, then sweeping on down the street. And then he felt the shock of her electric gaze upon him at last; their eyes met and held - for perhaps a second or two. Then her gaze slid away from his, she continued on, passed him by with nary a glance to suggest she cared. She hadn't so much as broken her easy stride; she had passed him so closely they might've rubbed shoulders, and her face hadn't shown even a hint of surprise.

            She had recognized him; he knew she had. She _had_ to have - but she'd not said a word. She'd passed him like a stranger on the street, decidedly unconcerned with how he had come to be here, how he had escaped death.

            His heart recovered its beat, his breath exploded from his lungs on a frustrated exhalation. He jerked around to stare after her as she retreated. The little witch hadn't even stolen a backward glance at him - he had been spotted and dismissed in the space of a breath.

            Blood rushed in his ears, the furious pounding of his heart drowned out all other sound. She had _dismissed_ him? What the devil did she mean by that, passing him by without so much as a simple greeting? Without pausing to consider the possible ramifications, he started after her. He had resisted the temptation to seek her out for over a year, he had left her in peace as she'd wanted - but now that she had managed to stumble upon him of her own accord, he would not let this opportunity pass him by.

            He followed at a discreet distance, perhaps thirty paces back - she hadn't said a word to him, but that hardly signified that she wouldn't mind being tailed. There was a bounce in her step he'd never seen before, like the weight that had been settled on her slender shoulders when last they'd met had been lifted, and she was now buoyant with the relief, tethered to the ground only by the bonds of gravity. The ends of her hair twitched over the small of her back; not simply a riot of curls as he'd first imagined, but interspersed with tiny braids secured with pearl beads. The swish of her hips as she walked was mesmerizing - he caught sight of a vendor giving her a long, lingering look of appreciation, until Balthier stared him down with all the menace he could muster.

            Judging by the veritable panic the poor man worked himself into, he could muster quite a bit - at least as pertained to Penelo.

            Satisfied the man had learned a valuable lesson, Balthier shifted his focus back to Penelo, just in time to see her stepping into a building off to the left some fifty feet away. A sign hanging from the awning above proclaimed it the Silver Thorn Inn. What the devil would she have need of an inn for? She had an airship - or she _ought_ to have, anyway.

            He gave it a few moments - just in case she happened to be lingering near the entrance - and then stepped cautiously within. The man behind the desk snapped to attention; in border towns like this one, the people were simple and plain, and Balthier's manner of dress set him apart, marked him as a foreigner and a well-to-do one at that. The prospect of gaining a customer so genteel clearly delighted him.

            "The woman that entered just now, which room is hers?" Balthier inquired.

            The man deflated visibly as he realized he'd not be gaining another customer, then immediately puffed himself up in feigned outrage.

            "See here," he blustered, "I can't just be going and giving out my guests' private information, now, can I?"

            Balthier dug a handful of gil out of his pocket, slid it over the counter. "Of course not. But if you turned your back for a few moments and I just so happened to take a glance at your guest log while you were distracted - well, that would hardly be _your_ fault, now, would it?" he inquired smoothly.

            The man eyed the gil resting on the counter, mentally tallying up the amount. He reached beneath the desk to retrieve a heavy, leather-bound book, which he plopped onto the counter before Balthier. Then he scraped the gil off the counter, shoved it into his pocket, and deliberately turned his back to occupy himself with a stack of mail, sorting the letters into their corresponding slots.

            Balthier flipped open the book, thumbing through the pages until he found the most recent entries, drawing his finger down the page, searching through the list until he came upon her name.

            _Penelo ven deii Leonne, rm. 12_

            Next to the printed information was her signature, a fluid script full of elaborate loops and flourishes, just the sort that a lady of good quality might have spent hours perfecting in the schoolroom under the tutelage of a demanding instructor.

            He had never inquired as to her family name, and she had never offered it. He was familiar with the family, in a way - but then, who would not have been? They had been wealthy beyond belief; there were kingdoms whose treasuries did not boast the fortune that had been accumulated by the deii Leonnes. Little wonder that they had met a grisly end - they had been staunch loyalists; their fortune, had it not been swiftly confiscated, could have turned the tide of the war on its own.

            He closed the book with a snap, shoved it back across the counter, and turned to ascend the stairs, while the man at the desk pretended not to notice. As much as the pirate in him could appreciate the fact that everyone had a price, it also infuriated him that those very same weaknesses in the spirit that he so readily exploited could have disastrous consequences for Penelo. Even in times of peace, Ivalice could be a dangerous place for a woman alone.

            Her door was at the end of the hall, locked. He briefly considered knocking - but she'd not likely open the door to him. And why should she? They hadn't parted on what might even be considered amiable terms. She hadn't even acknowledged him in the streets.

            Besides that, he was not accustomed to leaving such things up to fate. He'd always found that asking permission rarely yielded the results he wanted - better to beg forgiveness afterwards, instead. So he fished his pick set out of his pocket and went to work.

            At last the door swung open, without so much as a betraying squeak. He stepped inside, expecting to be treated to a furious tirade, much as she had elected to bestow upon him when he had invaded her privacy in the past.

            Instead, he was greeted by a low flutter of laughter. He closed the door behind him; Penelo was seated at a small table, her chair turned to face the doorway, her elbow propped upon the tabletop, chin resting in her palm, watching him calmly, not a shred of surprise on her face.

            "I see that you still haven't managed to acquire any respect for locks," she said dryly.

            As greetings went, it was fairly bland. But he'd expected something more - a firm rebuke, a snapped reprimand, anything but the arch expression on her face, the smug satisfaction he read there. He had the feeling he'd missed something, some carefully orchestrated plot, cunning enough to rival any he'd ever woven. Like a trap had snapped shut around him.

            Ridiculous. She was just a slip of a girl, still, only - what - nineteen? She hadn't the sophistication to pull off such a coup.

            She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, tracing an idle pattern on the tabletop with her index finger. "Do you know what your problem is, Balthier?" she asked in a deliberately light tone. "You are so very, very..." she paused a moment, as if searching for the perfect word. At last she found it, summoning a beatific smile. "Predictable."

             "I _beg_ your pardon," he said, affronted. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been so unfairly maligned; he'd spent the last several years making a living based entirely off _not_ being predictable. It was the primary reason he was still alive.

            And yet, the two glasses of red wine resting upon the table told the truth of it - she had indeed anticipated his actions. How the devil had she managed that?

            "Would you care to join me?" she asked, with just a touch of triumph in her voice.

            Cheeky chit. But as long as she was determined to be so accommodating, he might as well enjoy it. He crossed the room, dropped into the chair opposite her, and reached for the wine glass.

            "What in the world are you doing in this part of Ivalice?" he inquired shortly, taking a hesitant sip of the wine. Not as fine as he was used to, perhaps, but certainly better than was generally available this far out. Spicier, not nearly as sweet as he would have anticipated, given the vintages she had expressed a preference for in the past.

            She shrugged, an elegant rise and fall of her slim shoulders that set those damned bracelets jingling. "I spend much of my time traveling," she said, ever evasive.

            "You look like a bloody pirate," he muttered. And she did; wild, reckless - she had the gaudy jewelry, the devil-may-care attitude, the bold sauciness to pull it off. Fran had been right all along; she'd be a wonder of a sky pirate.

            A slow grin spread across her face; she hid it behind her glass, taking a tiny sip. But she chose not to dignify his comment with a response - she owed him no explanations. Instead she said, "You followed me."

            "You ignored me," he countered. "After a year, I think you might have managed a 'good day' at the very least."

            She tipped her head back, laughed merrily at the sulky tone of his voice. Her hair slipped back over her shoulder, exposing the column of her throat, her dainty ear - sparkling with three tiny silver rings dangling through it. Good gods, was there anything the girl _hadn't_ seen fit to pierce?

            "You believe you're entitled to pleasantries, then, do you?" she asked.

            Something about that gamine smile was worrisome. She had a secret - one he'd not yet ferreted out. Always with her damned secrets, taunting him to uncover them. This time they were not compatriots, compelled into each other's company. This time she could simply order him away if she did not care to continue the conversation. Did he wish to remain in her company, he would be required to tread lightly.

            "It would have been considerate of you to have offered them, at least," he said. And then a thought occurred to him, something he ought to have asked right off. "I've been widely believed to be dead this past year. I confess, I might have expected you to be somewhat surprised to discover otherwise."

            Again, that maddening secret smile, the downcast glance. "I knew you weren't dead," she said.

            He frowned; how could she possibly have known that? So rarely had anyone managed to surprise him - but she _would_ keep him on his toes, as she had ever been wont to do. Sometime in the past year she had learned the subtle skill of deflection, misdirection, answering questions with questions.

            He was no longer certain that, between the two of them, _he_ was the more knowledgeable. Disconcerting, that - it put them on a level playing field, and he had grown accustomed to manipulating the odds in his favor. He took a drink of his wine, unsure how to proceed. At last, he asked, "How did you manage to come by that information?"

            "Oh, it's quite a long and boring story. I don't think there's time for it," she prevaricated.

            He was hardly on a schedule - and if she'd taken a room for the night, how much of a schedule could _she_ be on? He swallowed his frustration with another sip of wine, gritted out, "Indulge me."

            She cast him a sardonic glance. "While I'm sure you've become used to issuing orders, _I've_ become used to ignoring them."

            Another evasion. Damned if he didn't enjoy sparring with her, just the tiniest bit. "Fair enough," he said, finally. In their present circumstances, he had no leverage, nothing with which to bargain. If she didn't wish to share her sources, she could not be made to reveal them, and they'd simply keep going round in circles, an exercise in futility. It was like swordplay, cunning parries of half-answers, searching forays of questions.

            "What have you been up to this past year, then? Will you tell me that?" He raked his gaze over her, in a manner she might have deemed impertinent a year ago.

            "I can't imagine why you'd care," she said, in a silky smooth voice, a hint of steel beneath the softness.

            So she would tell him nothing - why, then, had she invited him to join her? She refused to answer his questions, asked none of her own - save for those which were merely intended to turn his words back upon him. This was not a conversation. This wasn't even a confrontation; she made no accusations, made no inquiries as to his own activities. She simply didn't care. He tossed back the last of his wine, mulling over this quandary.

            Something was not adding up; something was wrong about this. He pressed his fingers to his temple; his thoughts scattered even as he tried to piece them together. Blast it, he was ordinarily excellent at flushing out intrigue - why had that ability chosen this moment to desert him?

            He blinked - and then, suddenly, she was standing beside him. When had she gotten so damned fast? No - when had _he_ gotten so _slow_?

            At once, it hit him. "Damnation," he snapped, shoving himself back from the table, reaching for her. She danced away from his seeking fingers, light on her feet as ever. _His_ feet were leaden; he felt as though he were slogging through tar. His vision blurred, corrected itself briefly, blurred again - but he'd seen clearly long enough to see that his glass was empty, hers full. She _still_ preferred sweet wines, damn her - but she'd needed the stronger, sharper flavor of a full-bodied wine.

            "I told you there wasn't time," she chided, her taunting voice coming distantly now. He turned, overestimated the rotation, stumbled. The room dipped and spun; he fought to keep his balance, swaying on his feet. He heard her mocking trill of laughter, the cheery jingle of her bracelets, the soft sound of her boots on the carpeted floor - she'd judged him harmless enough now to risk moving closer to him.

            "The wine - what did you put in the godsdamned wine?" he growled.

            "A mild paralytic," she answered brightly. "And a sedative. Not to worry; it won't cause any permanent damage. You'll wake up in a few hours, fresh as a daisy." Her face filled his vision, but his limbs were so heavy he couldn't reach for her. Fortunate enough for her - he might've strangled the life right out of her.

            His knees gave out; he slumped to the floor, braced himself upon his hands. But he couldn't fight it; it was only a matter of moments before he was helpless, unconscious, trapped in a room with the impudent, amateur pirate who'd drugged him. Insufferable girl - she had never intended to converse with him at all, hadn't deigned to answer any of his questions because it hadn't been necessary. She had simply needed to keep him there long enough for the drugged wine to take effect. She had _lured_ him to her room, invited him in, drugged him - for what purpose?

            The soft caress of her cool fingers along his cheek. "You really do need to be cured of that arrogance, Balthier," she admonished gently. "I suppose it's fitting that I'll be the one to do it - don't you?"

            Blackness pressing in. He staved it off with deep, even breaths, concentrating on her face. "You can't think...you'll get away with this."

            She spread her hands out in a careless gesture, unconcerned with having earned his antipathy. "I already have," she said sweetly. She slid her fingers through his hair in what might have been a comforting stroke, had she not then gripped a handful of it to lift his head from the plush carpet upon which it had been pillowed.

            "You made several mistakes," she scolded. "But I'll be generous and tell you the most glaring one: you assume too much." She leaned in, her cheek touched his, rubbed her soft skin against his. The scent of wildflowers assailed his senses, dizzying, provocative.

            At his ear, she whispered, "I'm not a sky pirate, Balthier." There was the sound of a smile lingering in her voice, the dulcet tones of satisfaction. And then came the killing blow; her lips brushed his ear as she murmured low, "I'm a _bounty hunter_."

            Indignation swelled, but he could not even manage a suitable invective. Darkness descended in a rolling wave; his eyes closed and oblivion snatched him up while her delighted laughter echoed in his ears.


	21. Chapter 21

Hazy light filtered in, pressing against his eyelids, beckoning him to open his eyes. There was the distorted sound of voices, one male, one female. The male was exasperated, the female insistent; they were arguing over something, but the sounds were too indistinct - his ears felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton - to determine the nature of their disagreement.

            _Fresh as a daisy_ , she'd said. That was a load of rubbish - his head ached abominably. He was itching to move, to simply lift his lids and find out where she'd brought him, what prison he'd find himself rotting away in - but his muscles refused to cooperate.

            The argument grew to a peak; the man's voice had lowered into sullen acceptance, the woman's to righteous indignity. Finally it seemed to be at an end; there was the sound of retreating footsteps, then a door slammed. From the tone of the weary sigh that followed, Balthier guessed that the woman had taken her leave. Penelo. It had to have been Penelo. He only marveled that she had not stayed to see what her handiwork had wrought.

            Time soldiered on for interminable minutes; he focused his energy on wiggling his toes in his boots, then his fingers, recovering movement where and as he could. At last the sounds around him had sharpened from confusing murmurs into identifiable patterns. There was the steady _tick-tick-tick_ of a clock, the scratch of a pen across a sheet of paper, the occasional footsteps down the hallway outside the room. Finally he could open his eyes without feeling as though the lids had been weighed down, glued closed. The bright light burned his retinas; he squeezed his eyes shut again with a groan.

            "Ah, you're coming round, then, are you?" There was the scrape of a chair's legs against the floor, the even click of footfalls as the speaker neared.

            Balthier winced; the male voice was clear now, and he was hoping he was mistaken, that it did not belong to whom he thought it did. Surely not - she wouldn't have dared. But he opened his eyes once more, and though the room spun enough to nauseate him, he was _certain_ that the face peering down at him belonged to Larsa Solidor. He brought his hands to his face, groaned again.

            "Damned irritating wench," he growled, his voice rough and unsteady, scratching out of his dry throat.

            Larsa choked on a spurt of laughter. "You've no idea," he said.

            Balthier managed a fair approximation of a glare. "She _drugged_ me and brought me _here_ ," he snapped. "I should think I'd have a decent enough idea."

            "Well, yes," Larsa acknowledged. "But then, she _is_ a bounty hunter, and you _did_ have a sizeable reward for your capture."

            "Why the devil was there still a bounty on my head?" Balthier inquired icily. "Oughtn't that have been done away with, given my services to the crown?" He pressed his fingers to his temples, massaging away the lingering pain. " _Two_ crowns," he amended.

            "Ordinarily, yes, if we'd known you lived," Larsa responded. "But, as you didn't see fit to inform anyone of that happy fact, revoking the bounty offered for a dead man didn't rank very high on my list of priorities. We thought you'd been entombed within the _Bahamut_ ; clearly recovering your body would not have been feasible." There was a touch of snide mockery in the tone; the boy had acquired a bit of sophistication in the past year, clearly. "Rest assured that I've sent a message to Ashe; I imagine she'll rescind any outstanding warrants promptly."

            Balthier got the feeling Larsa expected to be thanked for his services, but he was hardly in the mood to be so obliging. He shoved himself up on his elbows, swung his legs over the side of the sofa he was resting upon, and sat up. For a moment the room spun, and he dropped his head into his hands in an effort to recover his equilibrium.   

            "Of course, I _was_ still obligated to give her what she was due," Larsa said.

            Balthier's head jerked up. "You _paid_ her?" he snapped.

            Larsa shrugged. "She had a valid warrant; she was entitled to the promised reward." He sighed, and admitted, "I _did_ try to convince her to let it go, but she was rather insistent upon it."

            Hence the argument, Balthier assumed. "Vindictive, isn't she," he muttered.

            Larsa's eyes widened. "I thought so as well - what did you _do_ to her?"

            "None of your damn business," Balthier muttered irritably. Good gods - the last thing he needed was a fourteen-year-old child prying into his affairs, Emperor or not.

            Larsa took the surly response with relatively good grace, clasping his hands behind his back. "It was simply idle curiosity," he said in his defense. "One _does_ wonder how you might've earned her enmity." He backed away a few paces, then said, "Of course, I've taken the amount owed to her from your accounts."

            "You _what_?" Balthier snarled. Larsa's retreat had been a calculated one - he'd likely known that if he'd been within Balthier's reach at that particular moment, he'd be throttled to within an inch of his life. Which would likely achieve nothing more than to vent his fury and restore the bounty on his head, as one did not assault an Emperor and get away with it - unless that Emperor was Vayne. In which case, one might even be lauded for it.

            Balthier surged to his feet, only marginally steady yet. "You had no damned right to access my funds!"

            Larsa's eyes widened. "I have every right - those funds reverted to the crown's possession upon your father's death; Vayne would never have surrendered them to you." He cast Balthier an arch look. "Of course, the crown, currently, would mean _me_."

            Balthier pinched the bridge of his nose, uncertain whether or not whatever Penelo had laced his wine with was yet exacerbating his confusion. "What the devil are you _talking_ about?" he inquired.

            "Your father's holdings," Larsa supplied helpfully. "His assets - his monies, properties, investments - they've been in my possession. They would have gone to you directly, but you were dead - or so we thought. With no other heirs, what was to be done with them?" He flicked a hand towards the desk at the opposite end of the room, stacked with papers clearly of an urgent nature. "Again, disposing of them was _not_ high on my list of priorities - fortunately for you. The amount I've deducted for Penelo's payment is hardly a drop in the bucket; your father possessed a respectable fortune. I assume you'll wish to take possession of it immediately?"

            Balthier hadn't expected to take possession of it at all. His father had been a madman, intent upon ruining the whole of Ivalice - his holdings _ought_ to have been forfeit to the crown, given the havoc he'd wrecked upon the world. But then, maybe heroism was good for something after all - perhaps he'd _earned_ the right to inherit.

            "It's intact?" he asked. "All of it?" The child was _really_ going to surrender to him a fortune simply because he hadn't found the time to sell it off?

            " _Most_ of it," Larsa corrected. "I did arrange for Draklor to be cleared out. The building itself is intact, but the research has been confiscated and destroyed. Manufacted nethicite is a thing of the past; I'll not have it resurrected if there's even the slightest chance such a thing might be possible. Anything not related to nethicite was left behind; I am given to understand there are a number of personal effects still there. Your father was, apparently, a meticulous record-keeper."

            "Yes," Balthier muttered absently. Now that he was on his feet, the worst side-effects of the drugs that Penelo had slipped him were fading. "Yes, he was." His head still spun, but whether it were a lingering effect of the drugs or the unanticipated news of his sudden obscene wealth, he couldn't be sure.

            Larsa tilted his head to the side curiously. "I'll have the papers drawn up as soon as possible to transfer ownership back to you," he said. "Of course, I'll not restrict your access in the meantime." He crossed to the desk, scrawled a hasty note atop a sheet of gold-embossed stationery. "Should you wish to transfer your father's liquid assets to your own accounts or to access his properties, this will suffice as proof of your claim."

            Balthier folded the note, tucked it into his pocket. "My thanks," he said.

            "I'm sure you have better places to be just now," Larsa said. "And I've got mountains of paperwork, myself. If you'll excuse me."

            Summarily dismissed - not that Balthier minded in this particular case; he needed the time to wrap his mind around his present circumstances. With a nod of acknowledgment, he turned and headed for the door, pleased to find that the last of that wretched wobbliness had vanished.

            As he made to leave, Larsa called, "Oh, one more thing."

            Obligingly, Balthier turned.

            "Whatever you did to her," Larsa said, "I'd recommend that you apologize - there are surely some territories in which you may still be a wanted man, and I wouldn't put it past her to turn you in for a bounty in those should she get the opportunity. And I really do not have the time to waste, extricating you from such situations."

            "I _did_ apologize," Balthier snapped. "A year ago - damned contrary woman wouldn't see reason."

            Larsa threw him with pitying look. "Then you had better find a way to earn her forgiveness," he advised. "She's clearly got no love lost for you - and she's actually a rather excellent bounty hunter."

            "My thanks for your advice," Balthier said acidly, "But it comes rather too late; I have managed to discover that much on my own."

            --

            He walked to Draklor. It had always been the great love of his father's life - his family hadn't even been a distant second. Seventh, maybe, or eighth - if it had even merited mention. Balthier supposed he could sell the building and make a tidy sum from it, but it would be infinitely more satisfying to see it razed to the ground.

            The massive brownstone building dominated the skyline; it belonged to him, now - he could destroy it if he pleased, obliterate the building that had been his father's legacy. It was nothing more than an extension of Cid, a monument to his ego. The cruelest fate he could inflict upon his father was to be forgotten, lost to memory, to time, to history.

            Draklor was deserted, abandoned. The windows, once pristine, had dusted over, having had no one to maintain their sparkling gleam. Not even a guard stood watch to ensure that the facility was kept free of vandals. Balthier easily picked the lock on the door and slipped inside.

            The electricity had long since been shut off; the lifts wouldn't function without it. He had a long walk ahead of him - some thirty stories stood between him and Cid's office. He used it to consider his options, mull over whether or not it would be more offensive to Cid to demolish the building, or to put it to more worthwhile uses - donate it to causes that Cid would no doubt have deemed worthless. 

            The massive white doors marking Cid's office had gathered a thick layer of dust and cobwebs - Cid would have been horrified at the sad state of neglect his beloved facility had fallen into. He pushed the doors open - the office was much as he'd remembered it; sterile, lifeless. Once it had been lined with filing cabinets; those had likely been confiscated, their contents screened and destroyed. All that remained of Cid's inner sanctum now was his ornately carved desk, his stately wingback chair.

            Cid had been intensely private; he had never cared to have anyone invade his lair. Balthier had rarely made any sort of appearance at Draklor himself; the few times he had, it was because he had been summoned by Cid to be lambasted for some nonsense or other. He had quickly wearied of his role as the scapegrace son, the eternal disappointment.

            He wanted to exorcise Cid from this place; it gave him great pleasure to drop into the chair, lean it back until it creaked in agony, and prop his booted feet upon the unblemished surface of the desk. He dragged his heel; it carved a deep divot into the varnish, grinding in the dust that had settled and disrupting the immaculate perfection that Cid had so cherished.

            There was a drawer in the desk to his right. He yanked it open, relishing the groaning of the wood as it protested the furious motion. A stack of papers held in a folder, a sheaf of letters bound in brown string, and a...picture frame? A miniature, it looked like - just a tiny square, bordered with an elaborate golden frame. He picked it up, swiped away the dust, experienced a frisson of shock.

            Penelo's face stared back at him, unmistakable. Younger, certainly - only a girl when it had been painted, her cherubic face lovingly rendered upon the small canvas. He brushed his fingers over the surface of the miniature; she looked so...cheerful. Just a starry-eyed dreamer who still believed in fairytales, in miracles. She had had reason to smile when this had been done, she had been _happy_.

            Why the devil would his father have had a portrait of Penelo? Briefly his mind wandered back to the last time he had been in this office, when they had confronted his father for the first time. He had referenced all of them - except her. Vaan, even, he had made a point to complain that he did not know. But he hadn't said a thing about Penelo - not even to demand an explanation for her presence.

            Why had he not realized it before? There had been other things to concern himself with at that point, of course - namely, _not dying_. But he had always been such a master at noticing such seemingly insignificant details, because inevitably they were _always_ significant.

            He set the miniature on the desk, reached back into the drawer, retrieved the stack of papers. Their stiff parchment was heavy, solid - the sort typically used for contractual documents, designed to give import to them, to assure the owner of their legitimacy.

            In indelible ink of purest black across the first page, elegantly flourishing calligraphy proclaimed the papers a _betrothal contract._

            His stomach pitched and rolled, his eyes drew helplessly to the miniature, to Penelo's sweetly smiling face - surely Cid had not sought out a new wife? But then, Balthier's mother had been dead for years already, when this alliance would have been arranged, and Penelo's family had been so very wealthy. He could easily have thought to take a young bride to collect the monies from her dowry, and certainly he would have expected that a young girl would be easily lead, manipulated into behaving precisely as Cid expected, the perfect biddable little wife.

            And yet, a wisp of a memory trickled back - _"The most I ever received was a missive from his father with a list of skills I ought to be instructed in."_

She had spoken of _sacrificed sons_ , of her fury that her fiancé had failed to send to her even the most basic of correspondence, since she had been made to send regular letters. Not a bride Cid had chosen from himself, then - one selected for _him_.

            With fingers that trembled, he turned the page. Even though he knew what he would find, it still sent an electric jolt down his spine to see it there, undeniable, writ in ink.

            _Rostran and Linna deii Leonne do hereby give their daughter, Penelo ven deii Leonne, in promise of marriage, to Ffamran mied Bunansa, son and heir of Cidolfus Bunansa of Archadia._

            Balthier slumped in his chair, scrubbing his face with his hands. How could this have come to pass? How had he never known? How could she not have _told_ him?

            But...she couldn't have known; at least not initially. He had cast off his name when he had broken with his father, with Archadia. She had known him as Balthier, not Ffamran - until that night when he'd stolen her secret from her, when he'd confessed to one of his own. The way she had scrambled away from him - he had taken it as horror over his parentage. And perhaps it might have been, only not in the way he'd expected.

            He had told her of his hatred of his father, of Cid's efforts to mold _his only son_ into his image, and, after that brief display of appalled dismay, she had thrown back her head and laughed - wildly, uproariously.

            So she hadn't known the truth until then - but she hadn't deigned to share it with him, either, and she _must_ have deduced that he did not know.

            But then, she harbored no small degree of bitterness about the situation; she had clearly _not_ wanted to find herself wed to a man whose character she did not know, who hadn't bothered even to write to her. And then, once she had discovered that _he_ was the man to whom she had been affianced as a child, perhaps she had simply not wanted to wed _him_. Perhaps she thought the alliance had been dropped, forgotten, even formally dissolved - but Balthier had the proof in his hands that it had not. Cid _was_ , in point of fact, a most excellent record-keeper.

            The sheaf of letters - they were probably from her; all the correspondence she had sent over the years. They must have been addressed to him, but he had never seen them before. He carefully lifted the stack of them from the desk-drawer, tugged at the string binding them to release it, lifted the first from its vellum envelope.

            The date at the top corner was a little over seven years ago - just after he'd fled Archadia, too late to reach him by mere days. Cid had made this alliance expecting his son to carry it out, but had failed to inform him of it. What sixteen-year-old boy wished to find himself engaged, after all? But Cid had expected unquestioning obedience; he would have considered Balthier's opinion on the matter immaterial. Quite possibly he would simply have expected Balthier to show up and do his duty as commanded, no need to go through with the bother of informing him of his own engagement.

            Penelo would have been just twelve at the time - only a little girl, and suddenly her world had shifted abruptly. She had been expected to write weekly letters to a stranger, a boy she had been told she would someday marry. How confusing it must have been for her, how odd to write to a boy she had never met, never seen.

            Her penmanship had been quite neat; level, regular characters with their perfectly executed loops and swirls, blossoming across the page in straight, evenly spaced lines.

            _Dear Sir,_

_I am Penelo ven deii Leonne. We have not yet met, but Mama has told me that we are to be married when I have turned eighteen._

            _I hope I shall be a good wife. I am sure there will be much for me to learn before then, but I shall endeavor to study as much as I can so that I will not bring you disappointment. Teacher says that I am an apt pupil, and that she will do all she can to prepare me for our future marriage._

_I hope that we may better acquaint ourselves through correspondence, so that we may not remain strangers. Perhaps we might even grow to be friends._

_I await your response._

_Yours very sincerely,_

_Penelo ven deii Leonne_

The stilted letter evoked a wretched pain in his chest. Poor child - she had waited in vain for a response that had never come, for he had not been there to give it. He sighed, folded the letter, and tucked it back within its envelope. There must be at least a hundred and fifty other letters; she had not exaggerated, she truly had written him faithfully every week for _years_. But, of course, it _had_ been compelled by her parents. He wondered how her letters had changed over the years, if the resentment she still carried around with her had shown through in her later correspondence.

            He slipped out the envelope on the bottom - this one was different from the others, coarser - it was not the expensive, ostentatious sort that ladies of leisure were wont to choose as stationery for their correspondence. This was the cheap, mass-produced stuff that commoners used. The red wax that had sealed it had leached its color into the paper, leaving behind a rusty stain.

            The ink, too, was inferior - it bled into the paper, blurring the words with its reaching spidery tendrils. Gone was the careful, perfectly practiced penmanship - her fury was tangible in the quick slashes of cheap ink on the page.  She'd wielded her pen like a knife, her words cutting across the paper as though she would strike at him through them.

            In her fury, she had dispensed with greetings, jumping right into her righteous diatribe.

            _It will cost me sixty-three gil to post this letter, which I can ill afford to spend given the fact that your countrymen have stolen from my family everything of value._

_Tomorrow my family will be executed. You and your hateful father might have prevented this, had you cared to intercede on our behalf. It is my understanding that your father has the ear of your emperor - surely in light of our long-standing betrothal we were due that small amount of consideration._

_I know not what shall become of me - I was raised only to be a wife, and perhaps I flatter myself to believe that I should have been a good one - but know that wherever life takes me, it is no longer any concern of yours._

_This is the last you shall hear of me; from this moment on I shall never think of you again. I cannot imagine this ought to trouble you overmuch, as I have seen no evidence that you have ever spared so much as a single thought for me._

_Please consider our betrothal broken, for despite my reduced fortunes, I would not be persuaded to wed you were you the last man in the whole of Ivalice._

_Penelo_

He stifled a wince - she had risked much to post such a letter. She had been a fugitive from the Empire; had she been caught she would have met the same unhappy fate as the rest of her family, struck down upon the palace steps. Her hatred had been so extreme that she had been called to take such a risk regardless, simply to vent her outrage, to heap her scorn upon his head. Or his father's, rather, as he had never known of her or her letters. He wondered if that had occurred to her at all - the fact that he hadn't ignored her, precisely, he had simply not known that his father had seen fit to betroth him to her.

            So many letters she had sent over the years - if he had known of them, he would have...well, he would have behaved precisely as he had. The feelings of a young girl he had never met would hardly have signified to him then, a rash and reckless boy of sixteen. He would have been furious that he'd been sold off in marriage in return for a fortune - but he hadn't yet reached the age of majority, and his father had had the legal authority to do so.

            Even if it hadn't been his doing, his heart wrenched in sympathy for the young girl she had once been - so frightened, so full of rage and grief - left alone in the world to make her own way, abandoned to an uncertain fate by the family she had expected to one day join with. Small wonder she had lain the blame at his door in  her letters.

            He stuffed the letter back into its envelope, then slid it back into its place at the bottom of the stack. He tried to tell himself that they weren't for _him_ , not _really_ \- they were for the man that had willfully ignored her all those years, for the man she imagined to be just like all the other noblemen who had ever scorned her.

            Of course, he had honestly earned her enmity in other ways. Perhaps she _still_ hadn't wanted to wed him after learning the truth about his background - but she might have nurtured a fragment of trust. Which he had promptly crushed, without understanding how precious it was, given her disastrous earlier experiences.

            Probably she had never expected to him to learn of their betrothal. Certainly she wouldn't have told him of it, not after he'd proved himself just as unworthy of her faith as she'd always believed him to be. She would be content simply to let it be lost to any memory but hers - after all, their parents were deceased, there was no longer anyone to demand its fulfillment.

            And then, a wicked thought struck him: _Except for him_.

            _He_ could demand its fulfillment - he was as much bound by it as she.

            And the little termagant would _have_ to resolve it; she could not ignore him, not with this yet standing between them. This contract was fifty pages at least; surely it contained something that would be of use to him, something he could use to get her attention, to force her to acknowledge him at last.

            He sighed, conflicted. He ought to let her go - he knew he ought to. He could find a solicitor, draft up a page for the dissolution of the betrothal contract, let her go on her way free at last.

            But he had done precisely that this past year, and he would likely never have learned of their betrothal in the first place had she not sought him out, drugged him, dragged him back to Archadia to collect a bounty she knew very well ought not to be on his head at all.            

            He would have left her in peace, as she deserved. _She_ had started up this war.

            And this contract represented something he'd not had where she was concerned in a very long time.

            _Leverage._


	22. Chapter 22

            Balthier arrived in Rabanastre four days later, a spring in his step and a copy of the betrothal contract tucked under his arm. He'd spent half a day meeting with a solicitor to determine the validity of the contract - apparently, it was ironclad - and the remaining time embarking upon some errands that would doubtless flush Penelo out of hiding.

            He was gambling that when she discovered what he'd been up to, she would flee back to the only home she had ever known and seek assistance from Ashe - and so it was imperative that _he_ reach her majesty first.

            Apparently, gaining access to her exalted majesty was now an ordeal in itself - the palace guards patrolling the steps blocked the way as he approached.

            "Here now, you can't be just walkin' into her majesty's palace as you like," one of them blustered. "You gotta have an appointment."

            Good gods, he hated how pedestrian an ordinary life could be - he'd become too much accustomed to coming and going as he pleased, appointment or not.

            He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "She'll see me," he said. "Tell her Balthier has come to speak with her."

            " _Balthier_?" the second snorted in disbelief. "You ain't him - he's dead. Has been, gone on a year now."

            "Clearly," Balthier said tightly, "I am not quite as dead as I might've been assumed to be."

            " _Clearly_ ," the first guard said in a patently mocking tone, "you ain't the man you say you are."

            "For the love of -" Balthier broke off on a harsh exhalation. "Would _someone_ just fetch her majesty? She'll verify my claim."

            The guards exchanged wary glances. "Ain't no harm in checkin', I suppose," the second one ventured tentatively, a touch of concern in his voice. Obviously he was the more intelligent of the two - he had likely leapt to the conclusion that if Balthier's claim turned out to be true, her majesty would not be well pleased that he had been turned away.

            A hushed conversation between the two guards commenced, until at last the first guard acquiesced and the second turned to Balthier and snapped, "You - stay here." He turned about and retreated into the palace, disappeared for several minutes while the remaining guard, a great hulking brute of a man, folded his arms over his chest and attempted to stare Balthier into submission. Better men than he had tried, and failed, to intimidate Balthier - he was supremely unconcerned with the guard's show of aggression. Rather, he was merely annoyed to have been kept waiting on the steps like some sort of unwanted riffraff.

            Several minutes later, the first guard returned, speeding his way out of the palace doors, his boots clanking furiously upon the pavement. Flying behind, hot on his heels, came the queen herself, her skirts bunched in her hands to avoid treading upon them in her haste.

            She drew to an abrupt halt, staring at him as if she had seen a ghost. And she might as well have, given that those assumed dead were rarely known to revive themselves. "By the gods," she whispered. "And I had thought that Larsa was pulling some sort of prank." She shook off her shock, drew herself up to her full height. "What in the world did you mean, playing dead this past year?"

            "Rather thought I was entitled to a bit of a sabbatical, if you must know," he said dryly. "I hadn't realized you were owed an accounting of my whereabouts."

            Ashe's mouth snapped shut abruptly, for of course she had not been owed such a thing. "I suppose not," she muttered, piqued. "Still, it would have been polite of you to send a note, given that you _must_ have known we would assume you had died." She hesitated briefly, expression wary, hand fluttering over her heart. "I don't suppose Fran...?"

            "Alive and well," he said. "At least, last I saw her - which was some months ago. She grew weary of traveling without an airship." Though he could not say for certain, he imagined she had probably already visited Rabanastre at least briefly. She had been annoyed with his refusal to return; she had wanted to see whether Dalmasca had recovered itself, whether their heroic antics had amounted to any good.

            Ashe heaved a sigh of relief, visibly unbending. "Do forgive me," she said. "It's a bit of a shock, you understand, to find you alive." She tilted her head, scrutinizing his impassive face, the bundle of papers he had tucked under his arm. "I assume that some business has brought you here; would you care to come in?"

            Balthier cast a triumphant smirk over his shoulder at the miffed guard, who clearly would have dearly liked to throw him from the steps out into the street like so much rubbish. "Why, your majesty," he said in a tone that got the other man's hackles up even further. "I should like that very much indeed."

            Ashe frowned at him; she seemed to have perfected that queenly arrogance in the past year, her disapproval obvious. " _Don't_ antagonize my guards, Balthier - or I shall reinstate the bounty on your head just for the fun of it." She whirled around, made a gesture that he ought to follow, and stalked back inside.

            It was the first time he'd been inside the palace since that day a year ago when he and Fran had broken in, in the hopes of looting the treasury. Vayne's colors had been exorcised from the place; the dreary draperies and stately trimmings he had preferred banished by the softer, infinitely more elegant taste of the new queen. The marble halls were polished to a high shine; light poured in from every window. Those windows had once been covered, as Vayne had always expected a revolt, and he had not wished his movements within his commandeered abode to be visible from the outside, always fearing that secret shot which might at any moment come flying through the glass to put an end to him.

            In contrast, Ashe was beloved by her people. She could leave the windows undraped and still sleep peacefully in her bed, still stroll blithely through the halls, unconcerned with whether or not some nefarious plot was being hatched in the shadows - she had too many allies willing to defend her to fear anything.

            Ashe lead him through the winding halls of the palace, eventually coming to a halt before a large set of double doors, which she threw open and motioned him through. As she crossed the threshold herself, she tugged on a bell pull, which would doubtless summon a cadre of servants eager to fulfill her wishes.

            The room was half library, half drawing room - the shelves that wrapped around three walls were lined with leather bound volumes, the comforting scent of old books pervading the air. The last wall was taken over by a picture window overlooking the gardens, where flowers bloomed in lush profusion, smearing the view with hundreds of hues, like oil paints spread wantonly upon a canvas. Instead of the sturdy leather furniture he might have expected, instead there were low, comfortable couches, dainty upholstered chairs, delicate tea tables crowded between them to gather the furniture into an elegant sitting area.

            Feeling absurdly out of place, he took a seat on the most robust-looking chair he could find. Gods help him, the cushion was embroidered with lilies. Ashe sat across from him, folded her hands in her lap.

            "So, Balthier...would you care to explain the nature of your visit?"

            He pasted on a bland smile. "What, is it so odd that an old friend should pop by from time to time?"

            "An old friend? Of course not," she countered with a suspicious glance. "You? Absolutely."

            Well, it appeared as though her majesty still wasn't particularly given to mincing her words. He sighed. "As it happens, I came to inquire about Penelo."

            "Penelo?" she asked, taken aback. Then her eyes narrowed upon his face, expression guarded. "What about her?"

            "It occurs to me that perhaps something of interest had transpired within the last year, considering that last I saw her a year ago, she had acquired a rather serious injury...and when next I saw her, she was turning me in for a bounty in Archadia."

           Ashe's eyes widened; a shocked burst of laughter escaped before she managed to smother it with her hand. "Oh. _Oh_." She managed to compose herself, but the remnants of a smirk lingered about her mouth. "Larsa didn't exactly, ah...provide any context regarding revoking your bounties. I had no idea that _Penelo_ had dragged you in." Another helpless titter; he rolled his eyes.

            "Yes, well, it was rather a surprise to me as well," he muttered. "Blast it all, how could you let her become a bounty hunter? Surely there were more worthwhile pursuits she might have undertaken?" Say, something that would have confined her to the palace, kept her safe and protected.

            Ashe cast him a chiding look. "Balthier, I didn't _let_ her become anything - how could I possibly keep her from doing as she pleased? Should I have kept her prisoner, repaid her service with such cruelty? She was unhappy here, with all of those fortune hunters sniffing at her skirts, with the ladies turning their noses up at her, scorning her company." She heaved a sigh, pressed her fingers to her forehead in consternation. "I suppose it was unavoidable, given the circumstances - but she wouldn't stay and suffer them any longer. She might have run a bit wild since, but I suppose she's entitled."

            "A _bit_ wild?" he echoed incredulously. "A _bit_ wild is over imbibing on spirits, or carousing through the early hours of the morning. No, she's not run _a bit wild_ ," he snarled. "She's grown _feral_."

            Ashe stared, baffled at his vehemence. "Well, it's not for me to place restrictions upon her. She's of age; she can do as she pleases."

           "She is parading through the streets in indecent clothing, collecting piercings as though they're going out of style, and rounding up fugitives - it's only a matter of time before she picks the wrong target," he said.

            Ashe's mouth had dropped open in shock; she gaped in disbelief. "I...forgive me, I find that difficult to picture. She was always so circumspect when she was in residence here," she murmured at last.

            "You didn't know?"

            "No, I...Balthier, she's not been to Rabanastre in months. No one's seen hide nor hair of her - she writes on occasion, but her letters have grown less frequent, postmarked from all over Ivalice." She lifted a hand to drag it through her hair, blowing out a heavy breath. "I thought when she purchased that airship that she truly wished to _travel_ , not to take up such a dangerous occupation."

            Balthier froze, his muscles locked tight with a creeping sense of unease. " _Bought_? She _bought_ an airship?"

            "Yes - the _Stargazer_. She was quite insistent upon it."

            "Damnation," he muttered. "I've spent the past year traveling like a bloody pauper - and she buys her own damn airship!" His hands clenched, as if he were imagining tightening them around her throat. "What, in the name of all that's holy, has she done with my godsdamned ship, then?"

            Wide-eyed, Ashe gawked at him. "I - I'm sure I don't know. Why would she have it?"

            " _Because I bloody left it to her!_ " he shouted.

            What might have started off as a furious tirade on Balthier's part ended abruptly as a serving maid wheeled in a cart laden with cakes, tiny finger sandwiches, and a silver teapot with accompanying cups. Balthier subsided into a sulky silence as the maid diligently poured tea for each of them, and then quietly exited the room.

            Ashe serenely stirred an extra lump of sugar into her tea, sipped it thoughtfully before venturing a question. "Why would you have left her your airship?" she asked at last. "You couldn't have known what would happen that day - so you had to have arranged it in advance. What would possess you to do such a thing?"

            The queen was too perceptive by half. Balthier scrubbed his face with his hands, considering his options - he couldn't lie to her, not if he intended to solicit her help. He sighed, braced himself. "Vaan and I - we were responsible for causing her a great deal of distress. And that's all I will say on that particular matter; it's no one else's business. Suffice it to say, given the gravity of my offense, the _Strahl_ was a fitting penance."

            "Oh," Ashe breathed. "I had wondered - she and Vaan had seemed so close, but...the entire time she was here, she wouldn't have anything to do with him. She wouldn't speak about it; told me to mind my own business. Can you imagine?" She half-smiled at the memory. "The cheek of it. But, of course, there were more pressing matters to attend to; I could hardly afford to spend time investigating a falling out between friends." She waved the memory away, consigned it to the past. "So whatever sin you've committed against her - it was worth the _Strahl_. That's the past - what of now? What errand has brought you here _now_?"

            Again, Balthier hesitated - if Ashe declined to aid him, it would spell the ruin of his plans. "She's going to come here," he said, "and she's going to be very, _very_ angry."

            "She's been angry since the fall of the _Bahamut_ ," Ashe returned. "Why should it be any different now?"

            "Because of this." He thrust the bundle of papers at her; she received them with no small amount of curiosity.

            As she flipped the pages, her brows winged upwards towards her hairline. "What in the name of the gods have you _done_?" she whispered.

            "Not I," he countered swiftly. "This was arranged years ago - I learned of it only days ago myself."

            "But...is it _legal_?"

            "Entirely. Apparently, it was never formally dissolved." He leaned over, indicated a section. "You see there? That's the amount negotiated for her dowry."

            " _Good gods_ \- you're joking. You _must_ be joking. That's _exorbitant_." But it was all there, laid out in ink, irrefutable. "What do you intend to do with this?"

            This was where it could get extremely dodgy. "I'm going to demand its fulfillment," he said. When Ashe bristled in indignation, he made a swift gesture of placation. "Hear me out," he said insistently. "She needs a minder - she's been reckless this past year; it's bound to catch up with her eventually."

            "And you think she'll accept _you_ for that position?" Ashe inquired doubtfully.

            "No, I don't bloody think she'll accept me - that's what that contract is for," he snapped. " _Leverage_."

            "Oh," Ashe said. And then, " _Ohhh_ , I see." But her lips had compressed into a firm line as if she were weighing the benefits and shortfalls of such a situation. Her fingers curled around the bundle of pages, crinkling the parchment. "She is really going to be furious," she said softly. "When she was here, she was...bitter, I think. With her newfound fame and the fortune I settled on her in recognition of her service, every fortune hunter between eighteen and eighty crawled out of the woodwork to press their suit. She was appalled; there were many among them who had snubbed her years ago, turned their backs on her family, derided her as reaching above her station. But now - well, with her wealth and connections to two crowns, she was deemed an acceptable match at last. But not acceptable _herself_ , if you take my meaning." She shook her head sadly. "This contract - it's going to sit with her the same way. She believes her only asset is her wealth; she'll be terribly hurt."

            His fault. All his fault - _he_ had cemented that idea in her head, _his_ betrayal had finally made her believe that her only value was in what could be gained through her. It might not have been his intention, but he had accomplished it nonetheless. And she deserved better; she was _owed_ better.

            Ashe heaved a sigh, put her hands to her face, rubbed futilely at the lines of worry that had etched themselves into her forehead. "Honestly, I tried to help her - but I fear I've only made things worse. I thought if I gave her something to do, she might recover herself, readjust to the life she'd known before the war. I gave her back her family's home - but she wouldn't set foot inside it. She signed it over to an orphan matron, who turned it into a proper orphanage for the children left in Lowtown. Two days later, she had left Rabanastre, and I've not seen her since."

            Balthier pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, drew in a deep breath. Penelo was going to hate him - not that she didn't already, but now the depths of her fury would be unmatched, unfathomable. He was just going to have to believe that he could bring her around, rebuild her crushed spirit....before she killed him.

            "I need your help," he said finally, in a low voice. "Not for me, you understand - for her."

            Ashe tilted her head to the side, her brows drawing together in confusion. "What would you have me do?"

            "This contract - you could get her out of it, couldn't you? It's legal, binding - but you're the queen, you _could_ get her out of it," he said.

            "Well, yes - of course, it would have to go through the courts, but in a matter like this, if I expressed a desire for its dissolution, it would be granted." She stared at him in silent inquiry for a moment - and then she gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth to stifle the sound. "You want me to lie to her!" she accused, aghast.

            Balthier grimaced to hear it spoken so bluntly. "Yes, I want you to lie to her - for her own good. She's going to get herself killed otherwise; this contract gives me the legal right to supervise her. She's not going to like it - " The understatement of the century. "- but she _deserves_ protection - even from herself."

            "I'm not saying I agree - or _disagree_ , for that matter," Ashe said softly. "What I wish to know is this: what gives you the right to provide it?" She was _not_ speaking of a contract laid out in legal terms; she wanted to know his motivation, his intentions.

            Balthier slumped in his chair, his fingers curling helplessly into fists. "I did this to her," he said finally. "She's within her rights to never wish to set eyes upon me again - that's why I never returned; I thought she would be better off, that she would recover. But it's become clear that she hasn't, and as I am responsible for burdening her with this, only I can take it from her." Something of his regret must have shown in his face, for Ashe softened just a bit, her frown easing into a neutral expression.

            Ashe hesitated, conflicted. "I would not have her hurt," she said at last. "If I agree to this charade, I must have some surety that she shall not be the worse off for it. It is clear that you care for her - don't you dare insult me by suggesting otherwise; you are _not_ the sort of man to succumb to a guilty conscience. But is it enough? You must decide - now, at this moment. Will you marry her?" She held up the contract, shook it for emphasis. " _Not_ because of this, but because you honestly care for her?"

            Balthier chuckled, a harsh, bitter sound. "That hardly signifies - she wouldn't have me regardless."

            "If she would," Ashe said tightly.

            "She won't -"

            " _If she would_ ," Ashe repeated, between clenched teeth. "Your answer, or I swear I'll cast this in the fire, and that'll be the end of it."

            Balthier fell silent - he could have told her the truth, that the papers she held were only a copy, that the original had been filed with his solicitor in Archades. But then, if Ashe was willing to sacrifice her principles to do what she thought best for Penelo, perhaps he owed her sacrifice in equal measure. He had not thought on it before - he had not allowed himself to think on it, for he knew that the most for which he could hope was that Penelo would be brought to acknowledge her own value. And when she did, she would leave, secure in herself, and with the full knowledge that she was too good for the likes of him; she had _always_ been too good.

            Anything that might've been between them he had sacrificed with that damned wager - even Fran, who had espoused her belief that Penelo was his ideal partner, had acknowledged that he had destroyed any chance of that. Still, there was a part of him that could admit that Penelo _was_ different; she had held his interest like no other woman, she could very well have been what Fran had said she was - not that it mattered any longer. To _her_ , anyway. He forced that uncomfortable thought out of his mind.

              "She won't," he said again, hoping that his voice hadn't sounded as deadened to Ashe as it had to him. "But _if_ she would - yes, I would marry her." He had never thought to hear himself speak those words, was surprised to find they didn't come out sounding like a lie.

            Ashe sat silently, her hands folded primly in her lap, for a long moment merely staring at him as if she could read his face and divine his sincerity. And then, finally, she nodded.

            "Very well," she said in a crisp voice. "I will help you."

\--

            "What do you mean, _there's nothing there_?" Penelo gritted out from between clenched teeth, scowling at the hapless bank clerk.

            "Just what I've said, miss." The clerk shrugged, only slightly apologetic. "Your account - it's been emptied. I'm terribly sorry, but your funds have been withdrawn."

           " _By whom_?" she inquired icily, barely resisting the impulse to launch herself over the desk and strangle the clerk, who seemed not to know what injury he courted with his insolence.

            The clerk glanced down, adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose as he drew his finger down the page, searching through his records. "Ah, here it is - by your husband," he said at last.

            Penelo pressed her fingers to her temple, took a couple of deep, even breaths, prayed for patience. "I don't _have_ a husband," she said at last, in a guttural snarl.

            The clerk blinked, at a loss for a response. He could only shrug again, indicate his precious records for the pertinent information that had been logged there. "Says here you do," he said, twisting the record book around so that she could see it for herself, pointed out the line. "There - you see? Ffamran mied Bunansa."

            _Ffamran mied Bunansa._ It was there, his flourishing signature hastily scrawled on the page before her. Penelo felt the color leaching from her face, leaving it a pasty, sickly white. Good gods - he had found out. Somehow, he had found it all out.

            "H-he's not my husband," she said weakly. But he was as good as, in the eyes of the law.

            "Well, he must have shown some sort of document to that effect, or he'd not be permitted to access your account," the clerk said, drawing himself up with pride. "We _do_ pride ourselves on the security we offer our customers," he sniffed. "Without proof, he'd have been denied."

            Balthier had stolen her funds - somehow he'd discovered their previous betrothal, and he'd used it to empty her accounts, no doubt in revenge. How _dared_ he? Hadn't she suffered enough at his hands - did he have to take _everything_ from her?

            "Here, now," the clerk said, attempting to sooth her, clearly wishing to keep her from causing a scene at his banking establishment. "Miss, are you all right?"

            Incredulously, she glared at the man. " _Of course_ I'm not all right," she seethed. "My funds have been stolen - by a scheming, repugnant _sky pirate_. Tell me, _why_ would I be _all right_? What about this ridiculous situation makes you think that I might in any way be _all right_?" She punctuated her scathing retort by banging her fist on the top of his desk, causing him to jump, startled by the intensity of her fury.

            "I - I'm sorry," he said at last. "But he had a valid claim, and...wait, miss - where are you going?" Penelo had not cared to hear the remainder of his condescending speech, had turned on her heel and stalked towards the door.

            But she paused and turned at the door, the menace writ upon her face at odds with the saccharine sweetness of her voice when she responded, "Where else? I'm going to make myself a widow."


	23. Chapter 23

            Penelo fumed all the way back to Rabanastre. The bastard hadn't even left her enough gil to replenish the pantry aboard the _Stargazer_ ; she'd spent an hour slaughtering creatures daring enough to wander too close to town simply to collect enough loot to sell off for a bit of ready cash.

            She was going to have to enlist Ashe's aid; surely there was something _she_ could do. Penelo was woefully out of her depth here; clearly Balthier had some sort of proof - she'd never seen any of it herself; she'd merely been informed of her betrothal. But then, any documents her parents might have had would likely have been tossed into the garbage when the Imperial soldiers had looted her home.

             If he thought he was simply going to take possession of her funds, he had another thing coming - she'd happily hack him into bits first. She'd had more than a year of practice; she was getting rather good at it.

            Blasted, contemptible pirate - why couldn't he leave well enough alone? Turning him in for the bounty on his head had been too good for him; she ought to have just skewered him while she had had the chance.

            She was careening through the skies so quickly, she nearly overshot the Aerodrome. With a muttered curse, she adjusted her course, made a tight maneuver, and set down the _Stargazer_ on its dock. As she descended the ramp, a couple of city guards came walking up to meet her, the one in front carrying a folded letter. Annoyed at the unwelcome interruption, she glowered at him.

            "This the _Stargazer_?" he asked, by way of greeting.

            Penelo gestured behind her, to the silver lettering emblazoned upon the side of her airship. "Surely," she said impatiently, "you can _read_ , sir."

            The guard peered over her shoulder, inspecting it for himself. "All right, then," he said, handing her the letter. "Suppose this would be for you. Confiscation papers."

            " _Confiscation papers_?" she echoed, incredulous.

            "Seems someone's claimed a debt against you. The ship is part of the damages, I expect." He turned to the other guards, jerking his thumb at the ship. "You boys'll stay with the ship until her new owner comes to claim her," he said. "Make sure _no one else_ has access to her." This, with a frown of disapproval at Penelo.

            Her jaw tightened, her fists clenching until the folded letter was crumpled in her hand. "That is _my_ ship - purchased with the funds her majesty Queen Ashelia provided after I assisted in the _liberation of Dalmasca_ ," she said fiercely, her voice climbing higher with each word until she was nearly shouting.

            The guard was unperturbed. He merely shrugged his shoulders and said, "A debt's a debt, miss. Take it up with the courts." And then he was striding away, while the remaining guards took up posts near the ramp, their weapons at the ready, eyeing her with no small amount of suspicion.

            Penelo would have liked to screech her outrage - but that would wait. She needed to hold on to that anger, collect the fury that roiled within her until it could be unleashed upon its rightful target. That would mean getting to Ashe, determining a plan of attack.

            With a crude gesture at the guards near her ship, she turned and stalked away furiously, hastening towards the palace.

\--

            "She's on her way," Balthier said tersely as he strode into the throne room, the contract clutched in his hand. "I've just received word from the Aerodrome - she'll be here any minute."

            Ashe dismissed the attendants gathered before her with a wave of her hand; they dutifully abandoned their seats and exited the room. "She'll be escorted here directly upon arrival," she said. "Are you prepared?"

            "Are _you_?" he retorted. "You're going to have to lie to her - and you're going to have to do it _well_."

            "Have you forgotten I lived two years under an assumed name?" she inquired. "I should think that I would handle the task ably enough."

            "It's a great deal more difficult to lie to one's friends than it is to one's enemies," he shot back. "She's going to be furious and hurt - and she'll be looking for weakness to exploit in her cause. If she thinks she can turn you, she will." He hesitated, torn. "And I shall have to be cruel; she must think there's no recourse left to her. It's going to be difficult - you must be prepared for that." It would be more difficult than Ashe could possibly expect; he was going to have to laugh off Penelo's rage, appear callous and heartless - because if she didn't believe it, she would walk.

            "What do you mean, you'll have to be cruel?" she asked, baffled.

            But the doors were swinging open, and there was no time to explain his intentions - she would simply have to trust him, if such a thing were possible. " _Remember your promise_ ," he hissed beneath his breath to her, just as Penelo stepped in.

            She looked much the same as she had in that border town where she'd lured him to her room and drugged him; wild, beautiful - only, now he could add in _livid_. She had halted in the doorway, jerking in shock to see Balthier had beaten her to Ashe. Her hands clenched into fists; she trembled with the force of her fury.

            " _You_ ," she snarled. And then she drew her bow down into the ready position, yanked an arrow from her quiver, and notched it. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you."

            "You'll not get your things back that way, darling," he said blithely. "It all reverts to the crown if I die."

            "Penelo," Ashe gasped in unease. "You _cannot_ shoot him -"

            "Please," Balthier interrupted carelessly. "She's not going to -"

            An arrow whizzed through the air, tore through the sleeve of his shirt, sliced neatly through the flesh of his upper arm, lodged into the wall behind him. With a sense of shock, he glanced down at the wound - of course it was only superficial, but perhaps he had underestimated the depths of her rage. She actually _had_ shot him, the obnoxious little -

            "Penelo," Ashe cried. "Put the weapon down!"

            The alarm in Ashe's voice had even Balthier starting in surprise.

            With a muttered oath, Penelo slung the bow back over her shoulder. "He deserved it," she said irritably.

            Blood had soaked through his sleeve; the injury hadn't initially hurt, the slice had been so clean and quick...but now it began to throb with pain. "You _actually_ shot me," he murmured in disbelief.

            "Oh, shut _up_ ," she snapped. "It's a flesh wound - you'll recover. _Unfortunately_."

            He grimaced, clapped his hand over the cut to staunch the flow of blood, said, " _Someone's_ got to rein you in, you reckless little hellion - it might as well be me."

            Ashe shifted her gaze between them, appalled at the scene they'd created. She pressed her fingers to her forehead and snapped, "Both of you - sit." When they failed to do as she bit, she shouted, " _Sit!_ " in a tone that snapped with command.

            Penelo tossed herself into a chair, like a child preparing to throw a tantrum. Balthier dropped into a chair of his own, tossed the contract onto the chair beside him, and peeled back the sleeve of his shirt to inspect the damage. It stung like the devil, but it was a clean, relatively shallow cut. He ripped a strip from the bottom of his shirt, wrapped it around the wound like a bandage, and tied it off.

            "If you have finished making a battleground of my throne room," Ashe said caustically, "let us get this matter settled."

            Penelo jabbed a finger in Balthier's direction. "He stole my money - _and_ my airship!" she accused.

            Ashe turned on Balthier, her brows arched in surprise. " _Really_?" she inquired. "Her _airship_?"

            That much she had not known yet - there had not been time to tell her. He shrugged, as if supremely unconcerned. "Call it payment towards her debt - the funds in her accounts weren't sufficient to cover the amount."

            "My _debt_?" Penelo echoed in disbelief. " _What_ debt? You had no right to commandeer my funds, my ship."

            Balthier favored her with a condescending smile. "In fact, I have every right. Recently - thanks to your generous assistance in returning me to Archades - I have come into possession of certain _documents_." Her face paled; given that the wench had actually _shot_ him, he could not be overly concerned with the indication of her fear. "I see you take my meaning," he said snidely, patting the stack of papers next to him. "You can imagine my surprise to discover that there existed between us a betrothal."

            "It was a long time ago," she said, in a subdued voice. "You don't want a wife."

            She'd said 'wife', but in the tremulous cadence of her voice, he heard 'you don't want _me_.' Probably she extended that beyond him to everyone - a year ago she had made comments to that effect, that she was outcast, unwanted, never fully belonging anywhere. She was still that wounded, bitter girl he'd made of her a year ago; only now she masked it under a mein of indifference, carelessness, recklessness. But now was not the time to show sympathy; it wouldn't do her any good.

            "Be that as it may," he drawled, "it appears as though I've got one."

            "No!" She leapt to her feet, fists clenched at her sides. "You can't make me!" She turned her attention to Ashe. "He _can't_ make me...can he?"

            "Well, no," Ashe acknowledged hesitantly, twisting her fingers before her. "You're past the age where a guardian could compel you. No one can force you to wed without your consent."

            Penelo closed her eyes, pressed one hand over her heart, sighed with relief. Balthier found himself perversely annoyed - she hadn't any idea how many women would have killed to be in her position; he'd been courted relentlessly for years.

            "However," Ashe said, "there is still the matter of your dowry. The contract was...quite, ah...generous."

            "How generous?" Penelo rounded on Balthier, held her hand out for the contract. Obligingly, he flipped through the pages until he found the relevant section, and offered it to her. She skimmed the page, her brows arching skyward.

            " _Fifty million!_ " she cried incredulously. "That's...that's..."

            "Exceedingly generous?" he supplied blithely.

            "Absurd!" she snapped.

            He chuckled. "To think, I had once thought to offer for you - when all along, it turns out I was owed a bloody fortune to take you." He propped his chin in his hand, inquired, "Were you a particularly troublesome child, by any chance?"

            Her blue eyes narrowed in a glare so vengeful he was, frankly, surprised he had not expired on the spot. "This has nothing to do with me," she said, brandishing the contract like a weapon. "You can't force me to wed you. And without marriage, you're not entitled to anything of mine."

            He settled himself back in his seat, draping his uninjured arm over the back of the chair. "Keep reading," he suggested in an ominously soft tone. "Specifically, section thirty-two, paragraph four."

            She flipped pages hurriedly, searching for the part he'd indicated. He knew what she would find - the part that would likely incense her even further, the part he'd studied enough that he could recite it by heart.

            _The dowry portion will be paid by the deii Leonne family to the Bunansa family immediately upon marriage. Should the Bunansa family move to sever the contract, payment in the amount of the dowry portion shall be made to the deii Leonne family. Should the deii Leonne family move to sever the contract, payment in the amount of the dowry portion shall be made to the Bunansa family. In the event of a mutual dissolution, no payment shall be required._

            "I...I...I didn't sign this," Penelo whispered. "It's not valid - it can't be. I can't owe a debt I never agreed to."

            Ashe made a sympathetic murmur, but said in a troubled voice, "Dear...you were a child; your parents had the power to sign for you. They agreed to that contract on your behalf."

            Penelo whirled around, thrusting the contract back at Balthier. "This isn't my debt," she gritted out between clenched teeth.

            "If you'll notice," he began. "It says 'the deii Leonne _family_ ' - that would be you - and 'the Bunansa _family_ ' - that would be _me_." He tapped the bottom edges of the pages upon the chair to stack them neatly once again.

            She touched her fingertips to her forehead, grimacing as if in actual pain - which he thought a touch overdramatic, given that _he_ had been the one _shot_. "You could end this," she said at last. " _You_ could cry off. _Mutual dissolution_ , it said - no one owes a thing."

            "I could." He made a show of inspecting his fingernails, as if bored. "But I won't."

            " _You don't want to marry me_!" she shouted.

            "Darling," he chided gently. "I don't _have_ to want to marry you - _you_ don't want to marry _me_. As long as I'm not the one who calls it off, I win. The money becomes mine either through marriage, or it becomes mine through your refusal to wed me."

            She was seething again, fairly vibrating with fury. "I don't _have_ fifty million gil," she said. "You can't get blood from a stone."

            "Believe me, I'm well aware of your assets - well, I should say _my_ assets, now - I liberated a little over seven million from your accounts, and then there's the value of your ship, roughly six hundred thousand, I'd say. Still, that's quite a bit less than I am owed. The Queen informed me that she'd given you back your family home - what do you suppose that's worth?" he asked innocently.

            Penelo jerked, aghast at his implication. Even the queen flinched at that; it was a low blow, even for him.

            "You can't take that," she said. "I gave it away - it's an orphanage now."

            "As it turns out," he purred, "you hadn't the authority to sign it away. I'm well within my rights to take it back to satisfy your debt." A deep chuckle. "Well, a portion of it, anyway - it certainly can't be worth more than perhaps five or six million. You'd _still_ be tens of millions in debt to me."

            "Balthier," Ashe said in a pleading tone. He slanted her a warning glance - she would blow this charade all to hell if she wavered now.

            But Penelo turned, seeking a sympathetic ear, aid from the one person in Rabanastre who might be able to render it. "He can't do this, Ashe. There _must_ be a solution."

            Ashe was vacillating between commitment to the act and the desire to render her assistance to the alarmed young woman who had championed her cause a year ago - that stubborn loyalty was going to ruin all of Balthier's plans. He had to come up with something quickly, to take the focus off of Ashe.

            "You _could_ petition the courts, I suppose," he said. "But that will take months - and I wouldn't be so certain of their sympathy when they learn we've anticipated our vows. In as conservative a society as Rabanastre, you'd be lucky not to find yourself married out of hand."

            He regretted the rash words immediately, saw her shoulders droop, her head bow in humiliation; he felt cruel and petty. It sat ill with him, to be so callous to her, when she had deserved every kindness. But he couldn't call the words back, couldn't apologize for them - not now in any case.

            Ashe gave a scandalized gasp. "Oh, Penelo," she murmured compassionately. She fixed Balthier with a fierce look, a subtle warning that he'd gone a step too far, dared too much. He willed her to remember her promise, to recall that he had warned her that he might have to take drastic steps.

            Penelo's back was to him, but he knew that when her hand lifted from her side, it was to swipe tears of frustration, of anguish, from her face. "What do you want from me?" she asked finally, in a low voice.

            "What I am owed," he said firmly. "You are collateral for your debt - you will come with me."

            Her shoulders stiffened, outrage written in every line of her body. "And if I refuse? I don't _need_ an airship; I've done well enough without one in the past - I can simply _leave_."

            "You could," he acknowledged. "But if you should do so, you will be captured and returned to me," he said. "Every bit of gil you earn will be taken from your hands and delivered to me, until your debt is repaid. Which will, in all likelihood, be the remainder of your life. I have the full weight of the law on my side; there's not a court in all of Ivalice that would gainsay me. I've every right to set the authorities upon you."

            She released a defeated sigh, a wistful breath that tugged at his heart. Turning her wounded eyes to Ashe, she asked, "You can do nothing to stop this?"

            Ashe winced at the pitiful plea. She cast a hesitant look at Balthier - who stared back at her, expectantly - and at last, in a bare whisper, she said, "I...I am so sorry, Penelo..."

            Not the eloquent, definitive lie he'd been hoping for, he supposed - but then, that stammered apology was perhaps the most convincing part of her majesty's performance. Then again, perhaps she truly _was_ sorry - for her lie, for placing Penelo in an unenviable position.  

            Penelo pressed her hands to her face, such a helpless, despairing gesture that he flinched to see it. She drew in a shuddering breath, her voice a ragged whisper when she said, finally, "You don't _need_ my money. You only want to punish me."

            Of course she would believe that; he'd done what he could to convince her of his heartlessness. Still, somehow it wounded him to know how easily she'd accepted the fiction he'd thrown at her, how low her opinion of him truly was. But then, when had he given her reason to believe otherwise? His own fault, all of it - his responsibility to repair it, to breathe life into the broken spirit he'd crushed with his carelessness.

            "I _won't_ whore for you," she hissed in a wrathful voice.

            He felt the sting of those words like the stick of a knife through his heart, twisting, rending - he tried to tell himself that she had made such an assumption because of their past, because he had shattered her trust. _His fault, his responsibility, his burden_. She lashed out to protect herself, armoring herself in the shards of her tattered pride. It didn't ease the sting - but she had the right to her trivial defenses, her slings and arrows made of vengeful words. They were all she had left; he had taken everything else from her.

            He took a deep breath, kept his voice even and steady when he said at last, "Darling girl, who asked you to? This is merely _business_."

            She jerked as though she had been slapped, turned towards him. He braced himself for her rage, but was instead confronted with devastation. _That_ he had not expected - he glanced away, unable to meet her eyes, fearing that he might call the hateful words back, plead for mercy, forgiveness.  

            She mistook his avoidance for a cut, a dismissive gesture to indicate that she was beneath his notice. Wordlessly she turned to the door, her boots clicking fast and heavy, gaining speed as she fled.

            "Penelo, _please_..." Ashe called.

            "Let her go." Balthier took a deep breath, wincing as the door slammed behind her. "She'll be watched; she'll be guarded. She will not get far."

            Ashe wilted, looking wearier than he'd ever seen her. He, too, slumped in his seat, exhausted, pressing his fingers to his eyes.

            "Gods, that was worse than I imagined," he muttered, exhaling heavily.

            Ashe speared him with a glare. "I hope you know what you're doing," she said. "I've never felt so wretched in my life - I swear, Balthier, if you make her unhappy, there will be no place in Ivalice that you can hide; I will hunt you down myself. And," she said tightly, "I expect that you will keep me informed. That dear child is suffering under a tremendous burden - you are _not_ to take advantage of her. Is that perfectly clear?"

            He raked his hands through his hair, shaking off the tension that had settled into him. "She needs time," he said at last. "And perhaps a bit of vengeance, which I've no doubt she'll find ways to enact, given her current state of mind. She'll not come to any harm, I promise you." Considering the cruel words he'd slung at Penelo, his merciless demands, Ashe's faith in his promise was understandably shaken. From an interior pocket in his vest, he withdrew a folded packet of papers. He offered them to her for her inspection.

            She scanned the pages - bank records - her brows lifting in interest. "Well," she said. "I suppose that's one fear put to rest."

            "I never wanted her funds," he said. "I haven't taken them; I've merely moved them. She'll get it back, every last bit. I needed only to get her attention - and it worked like a charm, I might add." He gestured to the papers she held. "Those you may keep, for a bit of extra security, if you'd prefer. But she _cannot_ know about this - not yet. She's got to think I mean to hold onto them, or she'll have no reason to stay. A threat without teeth is worthless."

            Apprehensively, Ashe nodded. "What do you plan to do?"

            Balthier blew out a frustrated breath. "Damned if I know," he said. "Take her back to Archadia for a while, I suppose. At least until she settles a bit, exhausts herself of her anger. Sleep with one eye open until I can be reasonably certain she won't murder me in my sleep."

            "And if she _shouldn't_ exhaust herself of her anger?"

            "Then I shall let her go," he said. "I'll restore to her everything I've taken, draw up dissolution papers, and send her on her way. But she is owed better than I've given her, Ashe - she is so steeped in bitterness, and it is my doing. Surely she deserves to be freed of that burden."

            Ashe sighed, passed her hands over her face, rubbing away the lines of worry that had etched it. "You've made me your partner in this farce, Balthier. See that you don't give me cause to regret it."

\--

            Balthier caught up to Penelo ten minutes later, at the massive palace doors where her path was blocked by a pair of guards, with whom she was engaged in a petty quarrel.

            "Sorry, miss, we have our orders," one guard was saying regretfully.

            " _Whose_ orders?" she inquired sharply. "The Queen's?"

            "No, miss - his." The guard nodded to indicate Balthier, who was still some ten paces behind her. He watched her shoulders set, her back stiffen.

            Without turning, she addressed him. "Am I a prisoner, then?"

            "More or less," he acknowledged easily. "I can hardly be blamed for wishing to keep an eye on my investment, now, can I?" To the guards, he said, "I would welcome an escort, gentlemen - she's a flight risk."

            As the guards crowded close to her on either side - the better to apprehend her should she try to flee - Balthier stepped in front of her. He folded his arms over his chest, scrutinized her flushed face, glittering eyes. "Why did you purchase another airship?" he asked. "I left you the _Strahl_. You couldn't hope to purchase better."

            "I didn't want it," she hissed. "What was it supposed to be, Balthier? Payment for services rendered?"

            He stifled a wince; he had never considered how it might appear to her, how, given her low opinion of him, of herself, his gift might have been insulting, demeaning. It hadn't been his intention - he had given her the thing he loved best in the world, a worthy sacrifice to impress upon her his regret. Perhaps he had hoped she would see that he would rather part with it than to hurt her. Instead he had succeeded only in wounding her further.

            "I will accept the return of her, then - I imagine she's worth a few million, given that she is a prototype. Consider it payment on your debt," he said. "She's not stored at the Aerodrome, but I imagine you've got her stashed somewhere around here."

            "Go to hell."

            He pinched the bridge of his nose. "How many rooms aboard the _Stargazer_ , Penelo?" he asked wearily. "She's small - smaller than the _Strahl_ , I'd wager. I can't imagine you'd require very much room. One, then?"

            She did not dignify his inquiry with a response, but her jaw tightened.

            He continued, "I've spent this last year without an airship, as I'd left the _Strahl_ to you. I haven't the inclination to search for a suitable replacement for her, so if you'd rather be stubborn, I suppose we'll make do with the _Stargazer_."

            "I won't share a room with you," she ground out between clenched teeth.

            "Return the _Strahl_ to me, and you need not," he said. "It is your choice."

            For a moment she said nothing, merely stared at him as if to gauge his sincerity. He stared back, equally grave, implacable.

            At last she made a rough sound in her throat, muttered, "The warehouse district. The _Strahl_ is stored there."

            First point to him; she had ceded the round. That it was merely to avoid being in close quarters with him was immaterial.

            "A wise decision," he said approvingly, gesturing to the door. "By all means, lead the way."


	24. Chapter 24

            The warehouse in which the _Strahl_ had been stored had a roof that opened to allow the ship out through the top; probably it had been cheaper to store it there than in the Aerodrome. Penelo attempted to retreat to a room upon being herded aboard by the guards, but Balthier snagged her arm, dragging her with him to the deck.

            "Oh, no," he said. "You're not going to hide yourself away and plot your escape. You're going to stay where I can see you."

            "You said I would have a room to myself!" she cried petulantly, jerking out of his hold.

           "I don't believe I specified _when_ ," he snapped, crowding the doorway to prevent her escape. "For the gods' sake, _must_ you be so difficult?" It was a ridiculous question, naturally, spurred only by his aggravation. Of course she had to be difficult - she had no other power. The realization sapped the annoyance that had gripped him away, left him deflated.

            He sighed heavily. "Please, sit," he said at last, opting for a more conciliatory tone.

            She eyed him warily, backing away a few paces as though she suspected he were attempting to lull her into a false sense of security, only to strike the moment she let down her guard. Her chin tilted at an impudent angle, she folded her arms across her chest.

            "I require your assistance," he said, when it became clear she didn't intend to simply acquiesce to his request. "It would be better conducted while sitting."

            "Why would I want to help _you_?" she sniffed disdainfully.

            He tugged the knot of the makeshift bandage loose; the bleeding had slowed but not ceased entirely, the rent flesh exposed and raw. "It'll want stitching," he said. "I should think you'd relish the chance to stick a needle in me."

            When a slow, spiteful smile spread across her face he nearly retracted the offer. He tried to calculate how much damage she could do armed only with a needle and thread, stifled a snort. The little witch would likely sew his arm to his side.

            But she swiftly sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "Your first aid kit?" she prompted.

            "Haven't got one," he said. "I don't make a habit of getting myself shot." He probably ought to invest in one. More than one - she'd likely riddle him with arrows at every opportunity. And he'd probably let her; it was the least of which he deserved.

            She rolled her eyes, unclipped a tiny pouch from the belt at her waist, twisted the tog to loosen the flap. She dumped it out into her palm; out rolled a spool of thread, a packet of needles, and an assortment of buttons and pins. The pins and buttons she tipped back inside. With her teeth she bit off a length of thread, carefully slipping it through the eye of the needle and knotting it off at the end.

            "Well?" she inquired archly. "I can hardly patch you up from over there."

            What had he been thinking? The light glinted off the needle ominously; the smile that lingered at the corners of her mouth promised she would take no pains to spare him discomfort.

            A bit of petty vengeance on her part; he could handle it. She wouldn't kill him, not until she'd figured out a way to divest him of her pilfered fortune.

            As he dropped into the chair across from her, she reached out and ripped a strip of fabric from the already-massacred hem of his shirt. He held out his arm to her as she doused the fabric with water from her canteen.

            She pressed it to his wound - it burned like fire. _Definitely_ not water.

            He bit back a curse, jerked his arm away. "Good gods - what _is_ that?"

            "Whiskey," she said, seized his arm, dabbed the wound again. "It's remarkably good as an antiseptic."

            He clenched his teeth, reminded himself again that she wouldn't kill him - but that didn't mean she wouldn't make him wish he were dead. "Couldn't you have just used water?"

            "Of course." She blinked at him placidly. "Whiskey just happens to be more fun. For me." She pressed the cloth down - hard.

            "Vindictive wench," he muttered, when she finally finished torturing him with the whiskey-soaked cloth and he could breathe again. "I hope your stitchery is better than your bedside manner."

            "Oh, I should think so," she said lightly. "I didn't particularly care for it, mind you, but I was always rather good at sewing. Mama said I had a gift; I could make the tiniest stitches, probably thirty per inch, so small you could hardly see them individually." She peered at the wound. "How wide would you say this is? Two inches? Two and a half?"

            Dear gods - she _was_ trying to kill him. "I'm not a damned quilt, Penelo," he said testily. "Ten stitches."

            "No, I'm sure it needs more. Let's say fifty." She bared her teeth in a feral grin.

            " _Ten_."

            "Forty."

            He closed his eyes, heaved a sigh. "Fifteen," he said through gritted teeth. Good gods - he was actually _bargaining_ with the obnoxious chit over how much pain he would endure her inflicting upon him.

            "Twenty," she said shrewdly.

            "Done." He held out his free hand. " _And_ the whiskey, if you please."

            "I need to sterilize the needle, first." She dipped the needle into the canteen by the thread, and then passed the whiskey over to him. He eyed it suspiciously, peering into the canteen. "I haven't dropped any extra needles into it," she snapped irritably.

            "Perhaps not, but you _are_ wont to lace liquor with sedatives," he said.

            "That would take an admirable bit of foresight on my part, wouldn't it," she chided.

            He shrugged, took a healthy swallow. "If you don't mind, I'd rather get this over with quickly."

            "Oh, but I _do_ take pride in a thorough job," she said with sardonic sweetness. "I couldn't rush it; that would be irresponsible."

            Curling his fingers protectively around the canteen as if it might provide moral support, he winced - and she hadn't even put the needle in him yet. "Somehow," he muttered, "I think I knew you were going to say that."

            --

            In the end, she'd made due with only seventeen stitches. It really hadn't warranted more than ten, but he'd fully deserved the extra jabs he'd stoically endured. Truly, she had expected to feel a sort of malicious glee in his suffering, but instead she had felt strangely discontented, dispirited.

            She had nothing about which to feel guilty, she reminded herself internally as she closed off the last stitch and knotted the thread. _He_ ought to feel guilty - not that he would likely feel much of anything at this point, given how much of her whiskey he'd ingested. She'd never seen him quite so sotted.

            She tucked the needle back into her pouch, held out her hands for the canteen. "Give it back," she ordered.

            He clutched it firmly. "No."

            "You've had quite enough," she said in exasperation. Somehow he was less threatening just now, when he swayed even in his seat, his balance thoroughly compromised by drink - more like a recalcitrant child than an insufferable man.

            "I shall trade you the whiskey for the needles," he said. "By my count, you're owed three more stitches - and I don't trust you not to take them out of me at your leisure."

            Indignation rising, she snapped, "Between the two of us, I am _not_ the untrustworthy one."

            "Perhaps not, but you _did_ shoot me," he reminded her. "That hardly bodes well for my continued good health." His stern expression was shattered when he hiccoughed. Good gods, when had he turned into such a slovenly drunk?

            "You deserved to be shot," she gritted out, a bit of renewed fury snapping her back straight.

            He slumped in his seat, scrubbing at his face with his hands. "I know I did," he said, and he sounded nearly...regretful. "Never thought you'd actually do it, though," he mumbled. His words were slurred a bit, less precise than she'd ever heard them. A strange prickling sensation slipped up her spine; she had the bizarre feeling he was confessing things he never would have if the whiskey hadn't loosened his tongue for him.

            "I drugged you and turned you in for the reward just because I could," she said pointedly. "And you didn't think I would shoot you for stealing everything I own?"

            "Haven't stolen anything," he muttered irritably. "Merely...relocated." He waved a hand dismissively, then pressed it to his eyes, exhaling through his nose as his jaw clenched tightly. He looked to be battling the most common malady that resulted from over imbibing - nausea.

            What in the world was he talking about, _relocated_? Of course, Balthier being Balthier, he'd have managed to justify his thievery somehow. Still, she couldn't imagine he'd be afflicted with pangs of conscience over it - so why had he felt the need to justify it to _her_?

            Then again, why should she care? A stack of papers might state that she owed him a great deal of money - but she certainly didn't owe him her time or consideration. He had shown precisely none for her, after all.

            "I'm not going to discuss this with you," she said at last. "I'm not going to discuss _anything_ with you. You might compel my presence, but you cannot compel my attention." It hadn't been nearly as gratifying to sew him up as she'd wanted it to be; she'd not be manipulated into keeping company with him any longer.

            But when she rose to leave, he lurched to his feet as well. Unfortunately for him, he'd thrust himself out of his seat with a bit too much enthusiasm - he staggered, dropped the canteen as he clumsily reached for the back of the chair in his effort to steady himself.

            "No," he ground out forcefully, swiping a hand out to grasp her wrist. She yanked futilely in an attempt to free herself - but his fingers tightened like a vise. "My fault," he whispered, his voice rough, uneven.

            Something in the tenor of his voice caught at her, made her cease struggling to extract her wrist from his grip. "What's your fault?" she asked hesitantly.

            Somewhat stable on his feet now that she no longer threatened to unsteady him with her pulling, he eased his death grip on the back of the chair, stretched his hand out towards her face. His fingers brushed her cheek, warm, gentle. "Never meant to hurt you," he said.

            Even if it hadn't been his aim, he'd accomplished it nonetheless. She was tired of being collateral damage, of being used and discarded. She shoved his hand away. His fingers curled, his hand dropping to his side.

            "You've done an excellent job of it, for not having meant to," she snapped. "Was I supposed to be _happy_ that you'd stolen my money?"

            He swayed on his feet, teetered towards her, found his footing. "Had to get your attention somehow."

            Fury swelled. "For the gods' sake, Balthier, drop a damned note in the postbox like everyone else," she hissed. She gave a firm tug - without the chair to brace him, he stumbled, released her wrist in reaction.

            She didn't wait around to see what her fit of pique had wrought; she fled down the corridor, zipped into Fran's old room, slammed the sliding door home. He could soak in his liquor for all she cared.

            --

            Balthier awoke slumped in his chair with a headache the likes of which he had never before experienced - not even one full day in her company and he'd hit the spirits once again. He remembered offering to trade her whiskey for needles for reasons he could not fully understand, but his memory stuttered out right there, offering no further context or reassurance that he hadn't said or done anything completely asinine thereafter.

            Probably he had - he usually did, where she was concerned.

            By his guess it had gone past three in the morning; the moon hung heavy and full in the sky over the open roof of the warehouse. Damnation, the _warehouse_ \- they hadn't yet left Rabanastre. She could have gone walkabout while he'd been unconscious.

            Bracing himself on the arms of the chair, he hefted himself out of it, stifling a groan as his stomach performed an impromptu flip, threatening to cast up its accounts. No liquor, he resolved, for a _very_ long time, no matter the provocation.

            He eased down the corridor, hand against the wall for balance, treading lightly lest his stomach protest. Fran's door was closed; he hooked his finger around the handle, slid it across its track to peek within. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding - she was within, curled up on the small bed, fast asleep, moonlight dripping in the window to pool upon her face.

            She hadn't stirred when he had opened the door, but then, he _was_ an excellent thief. He had learned to tread silently over the years. He slipped quietly into the room, crossing the floor to kneel beside the bed. She was curled on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest, just as she had slept a year ago. She hadn't bothered to disrobe beyond removing her belt and boots; her hair was still swept up in silver combs, mussed flyaway strands curling about her face. Then again, he'd taken possession of her ship; she hadn't had the opportunity to collect any of her clothing from it, so she'd had nothing to change into. That had been inconsiderate of him; he'd have to rectify that in the morning.

            Her brows drew together in a troubled expression - poor girl, no respite even in sleep. He brushed his fingertips lightly over the lines of anxiety that etched her brow, smoothing them away. In her sleep she sighed, as if comforted by the touch.

            Briefly he considered drawing the covers over her, but decided she'd not appreciate the consideration; this room was meant to be her sanctuary from him. Carefully he rose to his feet, backed away slowly, glided silently out the door and closed it behind him.

            He'd have liked to find his own bed immediately, but simply because she hadn't fled yet didn't mean that she wouldn't come morning. So he took himself back to the deck, brought the _Strahl's_ operating systems online, and changed out her passcodes - should she wake earlier than he, she'd find herself stuck within the ship; he wouldn't have to concern himself with the prospect of chasing her down.

            That worry conquered, he took himself off to bed at last, hoping that morning would find them both in better spirits.

            --

            Penelo awoke late in the morning, disoriented. Sunlight poured through the window from the wrong side, and she'd slept in her clothes. Her hair combs dug their points into her scalp; she felt as though they'd left behind divots in her head, painful and sore. Why had she not thought to remove them?

            Memory assailed her like a slap in the face - she'd not undressed because she wasn't aboard her own ship. She was aboard the _Strahl_ , and it was in flight. A quick glance out the window confirmed that the ground rushed by beneath in a blur. She hadn't felt the lift off - but then, the _Strahl_ was a superior model in every regard; her speed and smoothness in the air unmatched.

            She ought to have sold it off while she'd had the chance.

            Her clothing was rumpled, her back sore from a restless night of sleep in a bed that was not her own. And her stomach rumbled a protest - she'd not eaten the night before, would have been too distraught to eat even had she had the opportunity.

            She would have liked to stay secluded away in her room, but somehow she suspected that breakfast wasn't going to be delivered to her - probably he would hold it hostage until she emerged. If he'd even procured it, that was; he could simply intend to starve her into submission.

            But for what purpose, precisely? Blast it all, he didn't need her money, didn't want a wife - the only motive left was revenge. He'd been furious with her for capturing him, probably she'd humiliated him, bruised his overinflated ego. Certainly he hadn't expected that bit of scheming from _her_ \- which had made it all the more satisfying, really, to have pulled off such a plot. But she hadn't had even a week to savor her victory before he'd found a way to enact his retribution.

            And yet, last night, when he had been out of his mind on whiskey, he had appeared almost...regretful. She scoffed, brushed the thought away - he had been drunk; he hadn't a clue what he'd been saying, his words and his actions at odds with one another.

            Balthier had been a pirate for so long he wouldn't know common decency if it bit him on the ass. It was senseless to try to interpret what drove his actions, for he had no deeper motivations than flights of fancy and petty grudges. She would simply have to determine how to outmaneuver him - she had done it before; she would do it again.

            Resolutely, she slid the door open and stepped out into the corridor - and nearly tripped over a mound of clothing piled outside her door. Hers - from where it had been left on the _Stargazer_. She supposed she ought to have been grateful. Instead she was incensed; he'd merely rubbed it in her face that _her_ ship was now _his_ ship and he could come and go from it as he pleased.

            She stepped over it; probably he'd tallied up the cost of the garments and added them to her debt. He was that sort of man. She would take nothing he offered, not when there were such costs.

            He did not glance up as she strode onto the deck. But he did say, "Good morning," in a voice that suggested he had perhaps not entirely recovered from his travails of the previous evening. His sleeve was rolled up, as if the pressure of fabric against his wound was too much to bear. He waved vaguely to the seat across from him, in which sat a box bearing the name of a Rabanastran baker. "Would you care for some breakfast?" he offered.

            "What will it cost me?" she inquired in scathing tone, accusatory and harsh.

            He scrubbed his face with his hands, suppressing a sigh. Of course she would be in a foul mood, of course she would caustic and irate; he could hardly expect any different given the circumstances. He had spent the better part of the morning considering his options, trying to divine the possible outcomes of each.

            He had determined that if she wished to leave, then it was only a matter of time until she managed to escape him, and he could not watch her every second of every day. She would always be looking for a way out - unless he _gave_ her a way out, one which would be guaranteed.

            She already thought him ruthless, pitiless. That was good; that had gotten him her compliance, however begrudgingly given. So he had to make a concession, negotiate a compromise that would, if not _please_ her, at least be acceptable enough for her to agree to. Of course, he would have to alter his time-table accordingly, but a bit of security would put her in a more amiable temperament. If she agreed to his proposition, she would have no reason to flee, and every reason to cooperate.

            He gestured to the chair again, said at last, "It's not my intention to starve you. If you would care to have a seat, there is a matter I would like to discuss with you."

            "How nice for you," she said. "However, as there is nothing I would care to discuss with you, I don't see the benefit." She snatched up the box, turned on her heel.

            A heartfelt sigh followed. He said, "I'm offering you a compromise."

            She performed a stutter-step, nearly dropping the box as the pastries within shuffled from one side to the other, overbalancing it. She rounded on him with an uncomprehending stare. "What?" she asked.

            "A compromise," he reiterated. Then, as if she were dense, he continued, "In which two or more parties negotiate a deal with terms acceptable to each."

            "I know what a compromise is," she snapped irritably. But he had determined that he had acquired her complete attention, and waved to the chair again, indicating that did she wish him to elaborate, he would require her to sit.

            With a huff of annoyance, she dropped into the chair. "Please, continue," she said tartly.

            "By the terms of our contract, I am owed fifty million gil. I intend to get it - or the value thereof. And, as you clearly cannot pay it, I've decided that you may work off your debt," he said.

            She leapt to her feet at once, mouth flattened into a firm line, belligerent and scornful, prepared to storm off in a snit.

            "I will deduct from your debt one million gil per day."

            She sat back down abruptly, as if her knees had collapsed from beneath her. Her mouth dropped open in disbelief, but no words emerged. She made a gasping sound, as if the breath had been knocked from her lungs, and finally found her voice. "Wh-why?"

            "My reasons are my own," he said, a touch crossly. "Suffice it to say that I have no wish to be either the jailer or the minder of a recalcitrant ward - and as I'll not receive the monetary value your debt regardless, my interests are best served getting what I can." From the interior pocket of his vest, he withdrew a folded sheet of paper. "Should you adequately fulfill your end of our bargain, you will receive this with my mark upon it."       

            She accepted the page he held out, carefully unfolded it. At the top, in elegant script, it read _Dissolution of Betrothal Contract_. Her breath shuddered out. "My things?" she inquired in a thin voice. "My funds, my airship?"

            "Will be returned to you upon fulfillment. Fifty days, Penelo - it's not so very much when weighed against the rest of your life."

            And he had the legal right to demand that; their betrothal contract would essentially make her an eternal prisoner, a slave until her debt was deemed repaid. Which, as she hadn't even come close to acquiring the necessary sum, would be _forever_.

            But then, he was sly, cunning. He could not be trusted, and she knew that better than most. "What of incurred expenses? Am I to be charged for room and board?"

            He waved that away as if the mere suggestion offended him. "I require only your time and your obedience. Understand me on this - I shall expect you to do as I ask without complaint, without tantrums or hostility. I am forfeiting a significant portion of what I am due; I shall expect a good-faith effort on your part in deference to my sacrifice." He held out his hand for the dissolution paper. Though she would have liked to keep it, it was worthless without his signature, and so she surrendered it to him.

            "What do you want from me?" she asked.

            "At the moment, I want you to put my house to rights," he said. "I seem to have inherited a good deal of property, and I haven't the slightest idea of what I am to do with it. But you - you were raised to it. You know how to run and manage a household, I expect."

            She did; she _had_ been raised to run her own household, had been trained to be the wife of a nobleman with all that it entailed. "Well, yes, but -"

            " _Can_ you do it?" he asked.

            Of course she could. But why would he _want_ her to? Certainly he wouldn't wish to go through all the expense of it - and why would he trust her with the handling of such a task? Still, if that was all he required of her, she could manage it ably enough, she suspected. "Yes," she said. "I can do it."

            He nodded, satisfied. "Are we in accord, then? A mutually beneficial arrangement; I receive your services for the duration of fifty days, after which you receive your freedom."

            It was far less than he was owed, and far more than she had expected to receive from him. And if she did not accept, he would only call in the full value of the debt, have her hunted down when she did escape. She could run, but without funds, without her ship, she would never get far. So it was either accept perpetual imprisonment or bite her tongue and perform her duties for fifty days. With a task to occupy her - one that she had _agreed_ to, rather than had been thrust upon her - it wouldn't be so intolerable. But...this would make it her choice rather than his command. She had a feeling he was depending upon that fact; she could hardly complain, could not hold on to the burning ember of anger within her when the choice had been hers. Yet, still - fifty days, against the rest of her life. She knew what the right choice - the _only_ choice - would be.

            And she said, in a voice that betrayed her relief, "I accept."

           


	25. Chapter 25

            Balthier sighed - it seemed that sighing was all he did anymore - and rubbed at his temples in frustration. "I don't _need_ a damned butler," he said, for what must have been the tenth time.

            Penelo plunked her fists on her hips and tilted her chin in that imperious way that he had once admired and now was beginning to dread the appearance of. "Yes, you _do_ ," she repeated, for what had to be the twentieth time. He didn't know how she'd managed to work her insistence in twice as many times as he'd managed to refute it, but somehow she had. He had learned, in the five days since they had arrived in Archades, that she had an obnoxious and maddening habit of always having to have the last word. And she usually got it. 

            "I _don't_." His house was already overrun with servants as it was. She'd hired on a veritable army of staff, and they were more or less constantly underfoot, opening doors for him, serving him tea and cakes - at this point he was only wondering when one of them would offer to wipe his arse for him. It was simply a matter of time.

            "You _do_ ," she insisted once again. "And for that matter, you need a housekeeper, an under butler, a footman, a valet, a gardener, and a cook's assistant."

            "For the love of - _why_ would I require so many bloody servants?" Obedience - hadn't he requested obedience? He hadn't realized that _obedience_ consisted of so many arguments over things that really ought to have been his decision but she had somehow taken it in her head to settle on herself anyway.

            "They're to keep your household running smoothly," she said.

            "And I require a staff of _thirty_ to do so?"

            She did not appreciate his sarcasm, canted her head to the side and fixed him with a glare. "Tell me," she inquired with poisonous sweetness. "When you have dinner, who do you think will prepare the menu? Go to the market to purchase the ingredients? Set the table? Serve the food? Clear the dishes?" Her voice soared in scathing rebuke. "How do you imagine your clothing will be cleaned and hung in your closets? Who will black your boots, change your sheets? Who will fetch your newspapers, shine your silver, clean your carpets and floors? Who will weed the gardens and wash the damned windows?"

            He hadn't actually stopped to consider all of that - it had been so long since he had lived in this dreary old house that he could not remember what it had been like in his childhood - all he truly recalled of it was the feel, the overwhelming sense of pathos and misery. His nonplussed expression merely served to throw her deeper into her snit.

            She jabbed a finger at him. " _You_ wanted me to put your house in order. Therefore you will let me do it _my_ way, as I'm _clearly_ the only one here who knows how!"

            He sighed - again. "Fine," he groused. "The damned butler can stay."

            "His _name_ is Entro," she said pertly. Then, as if she too had wearied of arguing, she wilted into a chair - for which he was profoundly grateful, because while she had been standing, he had been sitting, and that had put him at eye-level with that damned jewel at her navel at which it had been supremely difficult not to stare. It glinted, gleamed, practically cried out for inspection - and he was tempted.

            She splayed her hands out in entreaty. "I know there's a lot of them," she said. "But this house must have more than a hundred rooms and they'll need to be looked after properly. You'll have a housekeeper and a butler as your intermediaries to the staff - you tell them what your orders are, and they'll see them carried out. They will oversee the rest of the staff for you, to make sure their jobs are being performed adequately. And _you_ will have a properly-run household in exchange."

            She did seem to know what she was doing - in only five days she had aired out the house, assembled a crew to banish the dust and cobwebs, torn down the ratty curtains to let in the first light the house had seen in years, cleared out the worst of the furniture and sent out half the things she had deemed salvageable for repair, and had begun interviewing for positions.

            He supposed, given that she _had_ been raised to manage these sorts of tasks, he ought to simply let her do as she would. She'd not made a muck of it thus far, no matter how annoying it was to have his home invaded by servants. "All right," he said at last. "I suppose I shall defer to your better judgment."

            "You -" she halted abruptly, what he had assumed to be another fierce defense of her actions. Her mouth dropped open in surprise, her eyes wide and unblinking. "You will?"

            She looked so shocked; he imagined that the very last thing she had expected was for him to give in to her. Then again, he _had_ strong-armed her into taking on this role. Perhaps it didn't precisely inspire confidence in his reasonableness. "Didn't I just say I would?" he inquired.

            She snapped her mouth shut, jumped to her feet. "Yes, well," she said briskly. "I'll just be going, then."

            He'd managed to fluster her. It had been an age since he'd done that. But it _was_ rather amusing; she clasped her hands before her, wringing them as if to channel out all the nervous energy that gripped her. She had probably just realized that she'd been railing at him like a harpy when she thought of herself as much an employee as anyone else in the house.

            She backed towards the door as though he might take a strip out of her hide if she took her eyes off of him. "Rather a lot to do," she said.

            It was really rather endearing, her awkward prattling. He probably could have dismissed her and turned his back to save her the discomfort - but he was, perversely, enjoying it. Instead, he said, "Tonight, then."

            She froze, halting her backward glide towards the door with such alacrity that she stumbled a step. "Tonight?"

            "Dinner? I'm told it's served around seven each night." He'd taken his meals elsewhere since their arrival, to give her time to settle into a routine, a bit of breathing room.

            "Oh. Dinner. Oh, well, I'm sure I won't have time," she said breezily, and her hands fluttered in a great sweeping gesture, to the room at large. "I was going to work a bit in this wing today. Can't imagine that I'll possibly finish before nine or ten at the very earliest. I'll just have a tray sent up to my room - no time for anything else."

            " _Make_ time." A thread of steel in his tone had her eyes jerking back to his face, brows arching to her hairline. A subtle reminder of her promise, that she had come out the victor in their verbal skirmish only at his indulgence, and that might be revoked at any time.

            A hesitant pause; she considered him a moment before at last she nodded shakily. "Yes, of course," she said. "It's just that you haven't dined in before now - I'll have to inform Cook and the servants."

            "By all means," he said. "And do make sure they understand that we will _both_ be dining." He wouldn't put it past the scheming girl to declare a miscommunication of some sort that would lead to him dining alone.

            She swallowed hard. "Of course," she said weakly. And then she turned tail and fled.

            He managed to wait until the pound of her retreating footsteps had faded to break into helpless laughter.

            --

            Balthier crossed paths with her once again a few hours later, when he had found himself more or less removed from the room he had taken for his study by a steady stream of workmen come to tear the place apart under the pretext of making it 'liveable.' Whatever that meant. He could not be certain how yanking up carpets, removing furniture, and tearing down fixtures was intended to accomplish that end, but he hoped that its use would be restored to him in a reasonable frame of time.

            So he had dutifully left them at their work, retreating to a different area of the house - the servants' wing. Penelo had taken up a room there, despite his assurances that there were better, more suitable rooms in the family wing at the opposite end of the house. She had refused, of course, saying she needed to make sure the servants' quarters were habitable before she could hire on any full-time staff, and the best way for her to do that was to reside there.

            Of course he had not argued - but he _was_ rather annoyed that it took her so very far away from him. But then, it was _his_ damned house, and he could go where he pleased, and if he wanted to run the length of the servants' wing with a damned lampshade upon his head, no one was going to tell him otherwise.

            He ascended the stairs - she'd managed to do something about those, too, it seemed, for they no longer creaked as though they might collapse at any moment - to see her standing outside a closed door a ways down the hallway, head bowed, hands clasped before her.

            He could not see her face, but he had seen that pose before, and it turned his stomach. What the devil had happened?

            A raucous burst of laughter from within the room - she flinched at the sound, cringing away from the door. He paused, watched her draw a shuddering breath, and turn resolutely away. But she caught sight of him as she did, her eyes going wide, shocked. With a furtive glance over her shoulder at the closed door, she scurried away from it and towards him, pasting on a brittle smile.

            Which was _wrong_. She did not smile at him; she railed at him. She did not intentionally seek him out; she would avoid him if she could. As much as it annoyed him, he knew it was true, and understood and accepted it - for now. Which meant that _something_ was going on - something she wished to distract him from.

           She reached the stairs, murmured, "Oh, I was just going to look for you." _Lie_. "The servants are settling in nicely, so there's not much to be done here. I wanted your opinion on wallpaper -" Another burst of laughter made her tense, her cheeks flush, burning hotly, two bright spots of color in a face otherwise too pale. She nibbled her lower lip, soldiered on, "- for the family wing." She moved a step down, indicating that he should follow.

            He did not. Instead he continued down the hallway, stopping before the closed door. But servants' quarters had never been designed with privacy in mind, and the sound from within carried well through them.

            A male voice, in a grating superior tone, "Can't imagine why the master would have put that woman in charge of the staff," it said. "She'll be out on her ear as soon as he gets a proper housekeeper, I expect."

            Another voice, younger, with a less refined accent, "She's no lady; she's got no call to be putting on airs like she is. And she dresses like a harlot, besides." A huff of disapproval. "Still, I'll make my bows as needed, I suppose. I know which way the wind blows - a woman like that is only kept for one thing, and it's not her skill in managing a household."

            A hot tide of anger swept over him, clenching every muscle in outrage. Penelo had followed him, of course, and she laid a restraining hand on his arm. Despite the fact that her cheeks were yet stained with humiliation, she whispered, "Don't. They've not said anything that wasn't true. Servants talk; you can't prevent it. I assure you, I'm used to it."

            Something about her tone sat ill with him - she'd said it like it was simply a fact of life. _Used to it_ implied that this was far from the first time she'd experienced this sort of malice. And yet in those unguarded moments before she had noticed him, she had looked so forlorn, as if - as if even if she were accustomed to such jeers, they still struck true and deep. She had no defenses against such cruelty, not when she believed every word of it.

            He reined in his fury, unwilling to direct even the minutest portion of it at her. Carefully he unlatched her hand from his arm, placed his hands on her shoulders with a firm, reassuring squeeze, and whispered gently, "Wait here."

            Then he turned and kicked the door down.

            Penelo gasped in horror, with a reflexive cry of, "Balthier, I have _just_ had these doors replaced!"

            The two men within gaped in alarm to see their master standing in the doorway, his fists clenched in rage, face drawn in deadly menace.

            "Pack your things. You're dismissed," he hissed.

            "No, wait," Penelo scurried in behind him, gasping. "Balthier, do you have any idea the trouble I've gone to, to hire you proper servants?"

            He didn't care about that, any of it. He cared only that they had, in a few moments of snide conversation, caused her pain, placed upon her face that mask of humiliation that he had wanted only to permanently exorcise from her soul.

            "These are proper servants, then? The sort that speak in spiteful ways to their _betters_?" He stressed the word, so that they would know in no uncertain terms what her position was. "They were cruel to you; that's enough reason for them to go."

            "They came very highly recommended," she said tightly, her frustration mounting. "For the gods' sake, they weren't cruel _to_ me. It doesn't matter what they say of me, provided they perform their duties adequately. Balthier, you _cannot_ go firing servants every time they have a thought you disagree with or you'll have no one left."

            He was torn between admiring her and throttling her. He could not purge the sight of her stricken face from his mind. She had composed herself, collected herself, but he knew that beneath it she was still deeply wounded by their words. That she could cast it off to show mercy to two servants who didn't deserve it was admirable - but they weren't worth the trouble.

            Probably he didn't look sufficiently calmed by her pretty speech, and so she laid her hand once again on his arm. "Besides," she said. "I won't be here very long - it really doesn't matter. I'm _not_ mistress here; I'm as much a servant as any other."

            It was the wrong thing to say; he didn't want her thinking of herself as only a servant, he didn't want any of the servants thinking they could get away with petty rebellions against her. She was not one of them; he wanted them to know she had just as much authority here as he did.

            "Penelo," he managed between clenched teeth. "Go."

            "But -"

            " _Now_." His tone made her jump - but she stood her ground. With him, she stood her ground. Perhaps that was something at least.

            "Say you won't dismiss them," she said in a rush. Incredulously, he turned and stared at her. Too late, he recalled her fierce defense of the staff she'd hired just this morning - this was _her_ domain, and she would not surrender it to him. Not that it was truly _hers_ ; he would be within his rights to toss them out if he wanted. But to do so would be to strip her of her own authority, and she would be furious with him for it. He'd given her the management of the house and none of the servants would respect her did he take it from her.

            As much as it pained him to do so, at last he grumbled, "I won't dismiss them. May I shout at them?"

            A long-suffering sigh. "If you must," she said peevishly.

            "Oh, I assure you, I must." His dark tone had the two men quavering before him. He'd promised not to dismiss them - he hadn't promised not to thrash them. "But I doubt anything I have to say will be fit for a lady's ears."

            A polite dismissal; she turned to leave. But she hesitated at the door, said, "No violence - for the time being they're under my care, and I won't have them harmed." And she swished out, having once again gotten the last word.

            Balthier gave it a count of ten, to be sure she was far enough away before he proceeded. "The _only_ thing that has saved you violence is her mercy. Otherwise I'd have thrashed you and left you on the curb like rubbish."

            The ire in his voice provoked a pitiful plea for mercy in one of the men; he wrung his hands together. "Sir," he said in a warbling tone. "We meant no disrespect to you -"

            "No, you only meant disrespect to _her_ ," he snarled in response. "It will not be tolerated again. While she is in residence, you will defer to her in all things. You will follow her orders as though they were my own. If so much as a single unflattering word should cross your lips, a single untoward glance, there will be no place in Ivalice that you can hide to save you from my wrath." He jabbed a finger towards the door through which she had exited. "I don't give a damn if she chooses to run through the house stark bloody naked; you _will_ show her the respect she is due. _Is that perfectly clear_?"

            The shouted conclusion had both men starting in fear, stammering apologies.

            Balthier waved them away, unbearably aggravated. "She is a kinder and more gracious employer than you could ever deserve. But she'll be leaving eventually, and then you shall be stuck with _me_. See that you do nothing else to merit my notice." With a raw sound of disgust, he turned and left - denied even the gratification of slamming the ruined door behind him.

\--

            Penelo didn't know where she was going; she simply needed to walk with no particular destination in mind. She wandered the house aimlessly, drifting through corridors like a ghost, regretting for a moment that she had hired on so many servants - it made it that more difficult to traverse the house without running into anyone. And she couldn't bear the attention she would inevitably draw, so she simply turned around and doubled back whenever she chanced upon someone.

            It took her on a winding tour of the house, wending her way through drawing rooms and libraries and dining rooms and studies. At last she realized she had somehow blundered into the family wing - the master's suite had been the first she had ordered renovated, as was only fitting. She'd left the rest off for the moment, as Balthier was the only person staying in this wing, and other areas of the house had required more urgent repairs and remodeling.

            But at least that meant that there were no workmen in this section, no maids, no servants. She braced herself against the wall, pressed her hands to her eyes, breathed deeply. She didn't know why she had allowed their words to wound her; she was well aware of her faults, her unsuitability. She had accepted it years ago, understood it, even embraced it. Or so she had thought - but this fiasco had proved to her otherwise. And Balthier had borne witness to it; that was just _exactly_ what she had needed.

            She took a shuddering breath, let it out slowly, closed her eyes until the sting of tears behind them had faded to a dull ache. It really was nothing she hadn't heard before, after all. It was all true - how could she possibly be hurt by the truth? She really ought to be used to it by now. Ought to have grown a thicker skin. Acknowledged that the past couldn't be changed, her origins couldn't be changed, other people's opinions couldn't be changed - the only thing that _could_ be changed was how she reacted to them.

            But for the next several weeks her time was not her own, her actions didn't reflect only on her. She could not ever expect to win their approval, and she likely would never earn their respect - but she _had_ agreed to set up Balthier's household, and she could not leave it in a sorry state like this, with unmanageable servants determined to undermine her, and by extension _him_ , at every opportunity. And the servants were right - as she was, she was utterly incongruous to the refined atmosphere she was attempting to create. 

            That had to be rectified. Or, rather more appropriately, s _he_ had to be rectified.

\--

            It took Balthier a good thirty minutes to track her down. For the first time he'd actually been _thankful_ that his house was overrun with servants; he'd been fraught with worry that she'd actually gone and run off, but one of the servants recalled seeing her disappearing into the family wing.

            And it was there that he'd found her, in his mother's former room, buried in the closet on her knees as she sifted through racks and racks of dresses. She jerked, startled, as he strode in and closed the closet door behind him. But after a brief moment of surprise, she turned her face away and resumed her task.

            There was a brittleness that clung to her like a cloak, a bitter sorrow that hunched her shoulders, turned down the corners of her mouth. She sighed wearily, sitting back upon her heels, still consumed with whatever task she'd set herself upon. Upon her lap rested a mound of dresses, clearly culled from the racks before her.

            "Clearing out the closet?" he inquired gently.

            She hesitated, shook her head. Her hands curled around the fabric draped across her lap. "Looking for something to wear," she said in a thin, toneless voice. "I don't...I don't have anything suitable."

            The waver in her voice tugged at his heart. The closet was musty and stale, illuminated by the glow of only a single lamp - he thought she must prefer it like this, had been looking for a small, dark corner in which to hide herself away. He imagined her current undertaking must have been prompted by that regrettable scene in the servants' wing, imagined that she was not masking her hurt quite as well as she might've hoped.

            Carefully he eased closer, settled beside her on the carpeted floor. He was probably the last person she expected to champion her, but then - he'd made sure that he was all she had. "That's not necessary," he said. "You're fine as you are."

            She shook her head again. "I'm not," she whispered raggedly. "I'm not, and I never have been, and I never will be." Her fingers tightened, crushed the gowns, crumpling the fabric. "But I can, at least, give the appearance of respectability."

            Poor girl; her hoydenish appearance was nothing more than a carefully cultivated disguise, to project a confidence she did not feel. No; whatever confidence she might have had had been stripped from her with years of taunts and jeers. At some point along the way, she had decided that she would never meet with acceptance, so she might as well do as she pleased, for she'd been punished as if she had either way. Perhaps she had tried not to care, had managed to don a mask of nonchalance in public, but the barbed words and sly glances still pained her. She had never been afforded the respect that was her due, had suffered more than her fair share of trials and disappointments and cruel judgments from those who thought themselves her superiors.

            And she was still trying so hard to maintain her facade, to pretend that she didn't care, to affect a mien of acceptance, indifference. Trapped with him in this closet, she was doing her damnedest to conceal her hurt - quite possibly because he had been responsible for a good deal of the damage she had already sustained.

            Silently she stretched out her hand, resumed her chore, the sharp slide of hangers on metal jarring.

            And he couldn't watch it, couldn't stand to see her suffering as she was. He reached out his own hand, caught hers in it, said, "Darling, _stop_."

            She jerked as if he'd struck her, snatched her hand out of his grasp, pressed both of her hands to her face. Her shoulders trembled, she made a wretched gasping sound deep in her throat as if it had been dredged up from her wounded heart.

            What was he to do? He shoved the mound of dresses she'd gathered to the floor, hauled her onto his lap, into his arms. She made a token protest, shoving weakly at his chest until he cupped the back of her head, pressed her face to his shoulder. The fight left her in a rush; she crumpled, splintered, great wracking sobs broke from her throat. The hands which had pushed him away instead clung to him, her nails like claws, digging in even through the fabric of his shirt. He made soothing noises, nonsense words of reassurance and comfort, stroking his fingers through her hair, down her back.

            And between sobs, she managed brokenly, in a plaintive tone, "W-why? Why _you_? You're the w-worst of them. Of _all_ of them, y-you're the very worst."

            She could not see his wince. And of course, she had every reason for such a reaction; he could hardly blame her for it. He merely held her closer, rested his chin atop her head, and murmured, "I know, darling. I know."


	26. Chapter 26

            Balthier had not expected Penelo to put in an appearance at dinner despite her promise, considering her earlier upset. Especially not given the horrified expression on her face as she'd scrambled away from him when at last she'd spent her tears, vented her intemperate emotions. She hadn't even bothered to collect the dresses; she'd left them laying on the floor of the closet, stumbling in her haste to escape him.

            Of course several hours had passed since them; he had let her go and had not seen her since. Probably she needed time to sort herself out, probably she was bewildered by his actions - but he had needed her to see that he would support her, that he would defend her against her enemies...even if she yet counted him among them. It hadn't been enough, of course. How could it be? She had had a lifetime of such pain. It would take more than a few stolen moments of whispered endearments to combat it.

            So, no, he hadn't expected her to keep her promise, had, in fact, expected her to hide herself away from the world until she had once more perfected that flawless mask of dispassionate carelessness. Thus it was more than a little startling when she turned up promptly at seven in the dining room.

            Except she had turned up _wrong_. So very, very wrong. Somehow, somewhere, she'd found a dress she'd deemed appropriate - a plain grey frock made of some godsawful coarse material under a starched white pinafore with pockets at the front. It was precisely the sort of thing a servant would wear - no, it was precisely the sort of thing the servants _had_ worn in this house some twenty years before. Gods alone knew from which secret corner of the house she had unearthed that travesty of a garment.

            She'd eschewed her braids and combs, bound her hair up carefully in a length of ribbon, covered as much of her fading henna tattoo as she could manage with a pair of elbow-length gloves, removed her earrings - he wondered if she'd removed that jewel from her navel as well, not that it could be seen beneath the dress.

            By all standards she was properly attired, and yet he'd never seen her look so very unlike herself. She had crushed her individuality with the bit of ribbon in her hair, the cinch of the pinafore at her waist. He wanted to smash something, to shake some bloody sense into her - but it would avail him nothing. She'd gone to great lengths to affect this change in herself; she'd be furious with him if he criticized her efforts.

            A servant - _not_ , thankfully, one of the two he'd verbally eviscerated earlier in the day - pulled out a chair for her at the far end of the table, and she sat so stiffly he was surprised her limbs hadn't creaked beneath the strain. A cloth napkin was draped across her lap with a graceful flick, and her hands settled there, probably folded to a faultlessly correct degree.

            It hurt to look at her, and so he stared down at his place setting, at the almost unnaturally perfect alignment of silverware around the sparkling china plate, more utensils than anyone would have need for in a week. Thanks to her efforts, the silver had been polished to a brilliant shine, blindingly bright. The cut crystal of the glass near his plate refracted the light of the chandelier, scattering stray beams across the immaculately cleaned and pressed tablecloth.

            He cleared his throat. "You look..." Good gods, what could he say? Horrid? Tortured? _Dressed_?

            "Thank you," she murmured, as if to save him the unenviable fate of having to search for something he might compliment her on, though couldn't have managed such a thing to save his life.

            Silence reigned. Separated by what might as well be miles of solid mahogany table and acres of linen tablecloth, with a flowery centerpiece between them and servants hovering at the edges of the room, there was not much hope of managing even a passable attempt at conversation.

            She gave a subtle gesture; a servant ducked out of the room and returned moments later with a steaming platter. Though propriety dictated that ladies were served first, she whispered a command to the servant who promptly turned on his heel and marched along the length of the table to ladle a serving of something - chicken in a mushroom sauce, he thought - onto Balthier's plate instead.

            He knew why she had done it; she was reinforcing the fact that she was not a guest, she had not been _invited_ to dine, she had been commanded to. It irritated him, pricked at his conscience like a knife. Other dishes materialized onto his plate on much the same way; the servant entered, served him first and her second. Their glasses were filled with wine, but neither of them touched it. He had a feeling she hadn't ordered up the sort she would have preferred anyway.

            She was punishing herself, he realized abruptly, for her failure to measure up, in much the same way that she had been punished by everyone else. That damned dress was her penance, the ribbon her shackles and chains. Perhaps she might even believe she deserved it; if one was told a lie often enough, one might start to believe it.

            And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. If he forbid the dress, she'd probably only think he wanted to heap yet more humiliation upon her at the hands of the judgmental staff. He dropped his fork, rubbed his forehead wearily. But the fork clattered against the side of his plate and she jumped, startled.

            "Is...is there something wrong with the food?" she inquired hesitantly.

            "No, it's fine." He hadn't tasted it at all, really - his mind was occupied elsewhere. Certainly it looked well enough; he just seemed to have lost his appetite. Or rather, it had fled in abject horror at the sight of her in that awful getup.

            "I can have the cook prepare something else," she ventured.

            "It's _fine_." It came out a bit sharper than he had intended; her eyes dropped to her plate, her fingers clenching upon her utensils. If he could have seen her shoulders through the awkwardly puffed sleeves of the dress, he thought perhaps they'd have snapped straight with tension.

            The servants - he had to remember the blasted servants. They would take their cues on how to treat her from him; if he did not show her respect, the implication would be that she did not deserve it from them.

            "Forgive me," he managed evenly enough. "I find myself a touch distracted this evening. It wasn't my intent to snap at you."

            "Of course," she murmured in response, in a low, unreadable voice. "I'll endeavor not to disturb you." Gently she laid down her utensils, pushing her chair back from the table.

            "For the gods' sake, I didn't mean you ought to _leave_ ," he growled irritably.

            "It's no trouble, I really can't spare the time," she hastened to say. Her food was all but untouched; he couldn't recall actually seeing her take so much as a bite. Probably she'd simply shuffled it around a bit on her plate.

            She was more than uncomfortable; she didn't want to stay and he'd be a beast to insist upon it. With a defeated sigh he waved her away, and she, impudent girl, dropped a small, subservient curtsey on her way out. Heedless of decorum, he settled his elbows upon the table and rested his head in his hands.

            "Sir?"

            Good gods, a man couldn't even brood in relative peace. He lifted his head, stared at the man who had entered.

            "Who the devil are you?" he asked shortly.

            "Entro, sir. The butler."

            Ah, yes - the butler she had been so insistent upon. He was of middling years, with a subtle Dalmascan accent, clad in the crisp, proper attire of the higher ranking staff. His face was pleasant enough, with none of the haughtiness Balthier would have expected from a butler. He looked like a man who took pride in his work, but didn't feel the need to elevate himself by doling out condescension to his subordinates.

            Balthier flicked a hand towards the doorway that Penelo had exited through. "She fought to keep you, you know," he said, just in case this man, too, should prove as hateful as the rest. "I didn't want a damned butler."

            Entro's expression was unchanged. "I am aware, sir," he said. He gave only a tiny gesture to the servants lingering to one side of the room, and they leapt into action, clearing away the dishes Penelo had abandoned. "However, I assure you that I have many years of experience and my credentials are impeccable."

            "I'm sure they are," Balthier muttered in response.

            "If I may, sir," Entro said, "Perhaps a tray should be sent to her room. She doesn't seem to have eaten much at all. She'll waste away, dear girl." He clucked his tongue in genuine sympathy, the first bit of compassion he'd seen out of any of the staff towards her.

            Entro, he supposed, he could tolerate.

            "Yes - do that," Balthier said. An unfortunate memory struck, the show of her ribs through her flesh, her stomach concave, the pallor of her skin - he pressed his fingers to his eyes, forced it away.

            "And some dessert, I think - she does like chocolate cake."

            Balthier glanced up again. "You're rather impertinent, for a servant."

            "Yes, sir, I suppose so." Unruffled, Entro tugged at his gloves. "But then, I expect that's partly why Miss Penelo hired me on. You can dismiss me, sir, if you've a mind."

            Unwillingly, Balthier found a wry grin curling his mouth. He might not have wanted a butler, and he might've been saddled with an impertinent one, but perhaps an impertinent butler was exactly what he needed - at least someone in this godsforsaken house would speak their mind to his face rather than whisper behind his back. And hers - she ought to have at least one true ally in this house.

            "You're fond of her, then?" he asked.

            "Of course, sir." Entro blinked placidly. " _Someone_ ought to be." There was perhaps a smidgeon of judgment in the words, a sly rebuke.

            Balthier shifted in his chair uncomfortably. " _I'm_ fond of her," he muttered.

            " _Are_ you, then, sir?" The arch question only intensified Balthier's discomfort.

            " _Yes_ ," he snapped - and then slumped back in his chair. "For the gods' sake, what am I supposed to do about her?"

            "For now, feed her, I think," came Entro's neutral reply.

            There was something in Entro's voice that suggested familiarity, something greater than he ought to have acquired for her in the day or so that he'd been employed. An almost fatherly sort of protectiveness, Balthier thought.

            "You're certainly concerned with her welfare," he said, with no small bit of suspicion.

            "Of course, sir." Entro clasped his hands before him. "I've served in a number of homes," he said, "but, for several years, I served in the deii Leonne household in Rabanastre. I knew Miss Penelo when she was a child."

            _Definitely_ a fatherly sort of protectiveness, then. But he supposed this could also present a rare opportunity - insight into her life as it had been when she had last been happy. He would know things about her - her likes, her dislikes - that could prove invaluable.

            "You said she likes chocolate cake?" he asked. "What _else_ does she like?"

            "Sir," Entro said carefully, "are you asking me to _inform_ on the miss?"

            "No, blast it, that's not what I -" Balthier snapped his mouth shut abruptly, because it was _precisely_ what he had meant. "Yes," he sighed. "I suppose I am."

            After a moment's hesitation, Entro gestured to a chair, and inquired, "May I?"

            "By all means." If it would get the man to surrender the information he doubtless held.

            Entro took a seat, folded his hands on the table before him. "I can't say I approve of the miss being here on her own without a proper chaperone," he said. "It's clear that she is unhappy here and that the years that have passed since last I have seen her have proven unkind to her. I would not have further unkindness visited upon her." His voice took on a steely tone. "Even from you, sir."

            _Definitely_ impertinent for a servant. Balthier scraped his fingers through his hair, made a rough sound in his throat.

            "I _know_ she's not happy here," he said. "That's why I want to know what _would_ make her happy."

            Entro merely stared at him speculatively; he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being measured and judged, had certainly never expected such a thing to come from this quarter. Still, he met the look with a level one of his own - intent, resolute, focused. This wasn't employer to employee, this was man to man, and Balthier was excruciatingly aware that the power balance was not in his favor - Entro's fondness for the daughter of his former employers would override any loyalty to Balthier.

            "Hmm." Not a sound of approval, nor particularly of disapproval. At last, he said, "She has always been fond of flowers. Not cut ones, mind you - she'll not thank you for a bouquet. She'd rather see them planted. If you want my opinion, sir, you ought to encourage her to work out of doors for a spell."

            "Out of doors..." The gardens _were_ a wreck - but she did seem to enjoy setting things in order, and she had spent the last several days cooped up, overseeing the myriad repairs to the interior of the house. Surely she'd welcome the chance to escape the monotony of it, the judgmental eyes of the servants. "What else?" he asked.

            But Entro shook his head. "With all due respect, sir, I would see what comes of this first."

            _Damned_ impertinent for a servant. But if he pressed the issue, it was highly unlikely to go in his favor. He pinched the bridge of his nose, heaved a sigh. And despite his aggravation, he felt, perhaps, the stirrings of admiration for the man. "I think you'll do well enough as a butler, Entro - assuming I'm not moved to strangle you. Are you _always_ so damned insolent?"

            "Nearly always, I should expect, sir." Sensing the conversation was at an end, he stood and whisked Balthier's plate away. "But then, you will not find a more capable butler. Leave the staff to me, sir, and I assure you that this house will run smoothly."

            "See that it does," Balthier said, for the more tasks Entro could handle, the fewer Penelo would have to shoulder herself.

            On his way to remove the remainder of the dishes to the kitchens, Entro paused. "I'll take a tray up to her myself, sir, if you've no objections." Then, after a moment's hesitation, as an afterthought he added, "Lilies. She likes lilies in particular."

            Balthier supposed that might've been intended as a blessing of sorts. And so the following morning, along with the breakfast tray, he had a single yellow-gold lily in a small, clay pot delivered to her room.

\--

            Given the dreadful state of the gardens, Penelo had despaired of ever having them set to rights. But Entro had summoned a team of workmen in who had carefully cleared away the brambles, and once they had started on trimming the tall grasses down to a more manageable level, Penelo could see the potential in the sprawling grounds.

            She had spent the better part of the morning overseeing the labor as it progressed, and the day was growing warm and humid. She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had formed. Perhaps this blasted dress would make her presentable, but it was hardly the sort of thing that was comfortable to wear in the heat of the day.

             "Water, miss?"

            She turned; Entro had come, bearing a tray with refreshments - a welcome diversion for the time being. She accepted a glass, motioned for him to place the tray upon a small table she'd dragged outside.

            "Thank you, Entro - but, please, just call me Penelo. I'm not your employer; you shouldn't have to wait on me," she said. "I promise you, I've become proficient at fetching and carrying for myself."

            "Old habits, miss," he said with a smile. "It's quite ingrained at this point, I'm afraid."

            She leaned back against the brick wall of the house with a sigh. "Thank you," she said. "For the lily. It's brightened up my room considerably." In fact, it had moved her nearly to tears, after yesterday's ordeal. She had at least one ally in this house - for that much she could be thankful.

            He tilted his head curiously. "My apologies, miss, but I did not send it." There was something vaguely satisfied in his voice, as if a much sought-after answer had been uncovered.

            Her head snapped around, expression dubious. "You didn't?"

            "No, miss." He hesitated. "Perhaps the master...?"

            She waved that suggestion away as though it were ridiculous. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. Probably just a mix-up." But the thought wouldn't be vanquished; it buzzed around her head like a gnat - _would_ Balthier have sent it? _Why_? Because of that terrible scene she'd made yesterday? How humiliating.

            "Hmm." Entro's reply was noncommittal, but by his expression _he_ clearly thought that Balthier had been the one to send her the lily. At length, he said, "When you've a spare moment, the master has requested to speak with you."

            "Of course." She replaced her empty glass on the tray. "I'll go directly - did he say what he wanted?"

            "I believe it was regarding your plans for the gardens, miss," he said.

            " _What_ plans for the gardens?" she grumbled in her irritation. "They're not _my_ damned gardens!" Exasperated, she threw her hands in the air.

            "I'm sure I don't know, miss. Perhaps you'd better sort it out with him." Again, that sly tone - she was _sure_ she'd heard it in his voice. She narrowed her eyes, peering at him intently. But his face was calm, tranquil; no sign of deceit, of scheming. Perhaps years and circumstances had only taught her suspicion and doubt - perhaps she'd begun grasping at straws, searching for betrayal from all quarters, even from friends. But then, it would hardly be the first time a friend had turned on her. She shoved that unpleasant thought from her mind, steeling herself against the pang of hurt it caused.

            "You're right," she sighed at last. "I'll go, then - thank you for the water, Entro."

            She turned to go, and thus missed the hint of a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

            --

            The door was open, and so Penelo rapped sharply upon the doorframe to signal her presence. Balthier was seated at a desk, his head bent over a ledger, but he looked up and gestured for her to enter.

            "You wanted to see me?" she asked.

            "Yes," he said, snapping the ledger closed. "The gardens - what do you plan to do with them?" It took a valiant effort not to stare at that ghastly dress. Well, perhaps it wasn't _ghastly_ , but it certainly wasn't flattering - not that she'd appreciate his opinion on the matter.

            The corners of her lips had turned down in a disapproving frown. "I'm not the one who'll have to live with them; tell me what you want done, and I'll see to it."

            He blinked, entirely at a loss. "I haven't any experience with this sort of thing. I'm sure to make a mess of it; surely you've got _some_ ideas?"

            "It's not _my_ -"

            "Humor me," he interrupted. "I'd be interested to see what you would do."

            She _did_ have a few ideas. They weren't her gardens, but...it would be satisfying to build them up herself, to watch her vision take shape and grow. She hesitated only briefly before at last she asked, "Do you have a pen and some paper?"

            "Of course." He fumbled around in the desk as she pulled a chair up to sit. Finally he gathered the items, laying them on the desk before her, tried not to wince at the crinkling of the stiff fabric of her dress as she sat.

            With the pen she sketched a rough outline of the grounds, then the cobblestone pathway that had recently been unearthed from beneath the thicket of thorns and briars. "You've got this path, here - it wants cleaning, but the stones are good and even. It would be extremely costly to replace them." She glanced up briefly, but his head was bent, considering her sketch.

            "The cost isn't a concern," he said. "You can replace them if you like - or create a new path."

            "I don't think that's necessary; as I've said, they're in relatively good repair." She tapped the pen against the paper thoughtfully. "But I suppose the path might be extended - " She drew out the lines across the page, rounded off the end into a circle. " - to here. It lacks a destination."

            He touched the space she'd drawn. "What goes here?"

            She shrugged. "Whatever you like."

            "What would _you_ put there?" he amended.

            A moment's hesitation. "A pergola, I suppose." She pulled forth a fresh sheet of paper, began a new sketch. Beneath the pen, a structure took shape; a sloped roof, benches, creeping ivy climbing up columns. Just an idle sketch, but -

            "Can you use that?" he asked abruptly, and she started, an inkblot splattering the page.

             "It's just a sketch," she said. "You don't have to -"

            He waved off her protest. "That's what I want. You _did_ say it should be as I want it," he reminded her. He tugged the sketch of the gardens in their entirety out from beneath the one of the pergola. "Continue."

            "Well..." she prevaricated. "I would probably line the path with hedges - ostensibly as it was before, but everything was so overgrown, it was a bit hard to tell. Holly, I think, until here or so." She drew the outline against the path on the page. "And then roses for color, up to the pergola. There are climbing varieties; they can be trained to grow up the columns."  

            She considered the page; there was still so much blank space. Certainly there would need to be lawn, but - close to the house, there ought to be more life, more color. A pond, perhaps, and a few flowerbeds. The pond she sketched out beside the pergola, picturing it in her mind - stocked with fish, it would provide life, color, and sound. The flowerbeds she dragged out along the path, wrapping around the sides of the house - they would be vibrant, brilliant, eye-catching, a bright wash of color that would gradually fade into the more understated beauty of the lawns as they rolled away from the house.

            "Do this."

            Her eyes jerked to his. He had tapped the paper, but he wasn't looking at it - he was looking at her. She'd gotten carried away - she flushed, embarrassed, made a soft sound of dissent.

            "Oh, no, it would be terribly impractical," she said with a wince, stacking the papers. "And also extremely expensive. I'll manage something -"

            "I don't care about the cost." He tugged the papers gently from her hands, examined the sketch she'd done. "I want _this_." This design she had been so engrossed in - he wanted it for _her_ , to give her something to take pleasure in. She had enjoyed the simple sketch; she would enjoy that much more giving life to it.

            But she was hesitant still; probably she had not expected his approval, didn't know what to make of it. She had received so little encouragement, had instead had censure heaped upon her. Her confidence was in short supply.

            "Can you make the arrangements?" he asked. "Shall I have Entro assist you?"

            "Balthier -"

            He leveled a look at her. "You wanted my input. Here it is." He thrust the sketch back at her. "This is what I want; make it happen."

            She accepted it, wavering even as her fingers closed upon it. But she wanted to do it; he could see it in her face, in her eyes as she scanned the page - even now her mind was working, considering options, placing plants and sorting colors.

            "All right," she said at last. "I'll make the arrangements." She rose to her feet, turned to go - and whirled back around once again. She'd been so focused on the sketch, she'd forgotten about the flower that had arrived at her room this morning. As if of its own accord, the question burst out. "Did you -" But she clamped her mouth shut before the rest could escape, uncertain whether or not to continue.

            He tilted his head, brows drawn together in confusion. "Did I...?" he prompted.

            She shook her head. "Nothing. It's nothing." What did it matter, anyway? Flustered, she turned to leave and nearly crashed into Entro as he entered the room. She jerked, startled, hands reflexively curling, crumpling the paper in her hands. With a muffled curse, she creased the pages, tucking them in the pocket of her pinafore.

            "I beg your pardon, miss," Entro said. "The mail's come in." He passed off a stack of letters to Balthier and then a single envelope to Penelo. Balthier surmised that Ashe had likely had Penelo's correspondence forwarded, as she had known where to send it.

            But as she broke the seal and scanned the letter's contents, her face shuttered, unreadable - at last she crumpled the letter in her hands and tossed it in the waste basket.

            "Excuse me," she said at last, in an inscrutable tone, and she sailed out of the room.

            Shamelessly, Balthier snatched the letter out of the waste basket.

            "Sir," Entro protested reflexively, appalled by the invasion of Penelo's privacy.

            "I've given her the bloody gardens - what more do you want?" Balthier snapped. And wisely, the butler held his peace as Balthier smoothed the crinkles from the paper, looked it over.

            It was a plea for assistance, from a tiny village on the border between Dalmasca and the Golmore Jungle - they'd been terrorized in recent weeks by a crew of pirates, and were desperately seeking a bounty hunter that might be willing to take on the task of bringing them to justice.  

            He sighed, conflicted. She had just been served with an untimely reminder that her obligations to him prevented her from going where she pleased, lending assistance where she could. Stripped of her ship and her freedom, this call for help might very well go unanswered - and she yet owed him a month and a half.

            He supposed he could simply ignore it, pretend he hadn't read it, and nothing would come of it - except that she would be unhappy still, chafing at the confines of the house. Even the pleasure she might've found in the gardens would be tainted.

            Damnation. There was no help for it.

            "Entro," he said wearily. "I'm afraid you're going to have to take on a bit more work."

            "Sir?"

            Balthier held up the letter. "I'm going to have to take her on a bit of an outing."  
           


	27. Chapter 27

            The next morning brought with it a swarm of vendors - landscapers, horticulturists, architects; they descended in droves upon Balthier's home, sending the servants into a tizzy in their never-ending efforts to supply refreshments to the throng of people.

            Penelo had been forced to commandeer more furniture from within the house for use outside simply to provide adequate space for all of the people that had arrived to showcase their wares. She herself had sent for only one vendor; she had no idea where the rest of them had come from. And her head whirled with the influx of suggestions, with the cloying scent of flowers that had been carted in by the pallet, a sea of colors stretching from one side of the gardens to the other.

            Despite the furor into which she had been thrown, she did manage to carve out a bit of order - she gathered the vendors around, laying out her rough sketch before them, outlining the tasks to be performed and considering their propositions for them. The pond and the extension of the garden path with its gazebo would take several days of labor, she knew. But the flower beds - those could be constructed immediately.

            Under Penelo's instruction, the architects marked off the path extension and the horticulturists outlined the spaces where the hedges would be placed, while the landscapers got to work tearing up sod and tilling the dirt beneath into soft earth, perfect for planting. The beds would be lined later with decorative brick to keep out any encroaching weeds, but soon enough there was workable space.

            While they worked, she walked among the flats of flowers, sorting them mentally. The hostas liked shade - they would do best closest to the house. Zinnias, lilacs, and peonies - they thrived in full sun. Lotuses liked to be near water - she'd plant those near the pond, once it was completed. And lilies - well, those would do just about anywhere.

             Already there were twenty feet of flower beds awaiting their occupants, and the landscapers were still carving out space according to her direction. To the horticulturists she cast out assignments: hostas and lilacs near the house, peonies and zinnias in the first rows on either side of the path. But the lilies...

            Those she wanted for herself.

            --

            Balthier found Penelo kneeling on the grass, up to her elbows in dirt. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion, flyaway strands of hair curling about her face as she packed in dirt around a plant and reached for yet another from the pallet set beside her.

            His gardens were a chaotic riot of activity. But already the shadows of her plans had begun to emerge, brought forth by the laborious efforts of the workers he'd hired.

            She'd spotted him; he'd blocked her light and she glanced up just as he eased closer.

            "Don't!" She thrust out her hand at him. "I _just_ planted those - you'll crush them." She sat back upon her heels, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving behind a streak of dirt.

            Three inches from his boots, a row of bright pink flowers, newly settled in the ground, bobbed their heads in the breeze. Their silky petals furled outward, brilliant and striking against the freshly-tilled earth.

            He went to a knee, careful to avoid damaging the fragile blooms. "What are these?"

            "Stargazer lilies," she said. She passed him a flower from the pallet; its roots were wrapped to protect them. "Most lilies look down, bend their heads to the ground - but these ones look to the sky." She gave a wistful sigh - but at least she seemed content here, with her hands in the dirt and her head in the clouds, contemplatively looking down the row of flowers that had been planted under her care.

            Still, he wondered how long it would hold - there were only so many hours left in the day, only so many more flowerbeds to fill, and then her darker thoughts would creep in again, that tentative smile would be erased when she was forced inside once more by encroaching nightfall.

            "How long do you suppose it will take?" he asked, handing the flower back to her and giving a broad motion to indicate the gardens at large.

            She shrugged. "A few days, I expect. The flower beds ought to be filled by this afternoon. The larger projects will take longer, of course, but those I can only oversee." She turned on him suspiciously. "Did _you_ bring down all of these people upon my head?"

            He coughed, clearing his throat. "Ah...it became necessary to push things through in a hurry," he said. "How much of this can be wrapped up in the next few hours? Can you leave instructions for the completion of the rest, or is it something you'd prefer to oversee?"

            Her brows lifted. "Well, no - I suppose they'll do well enough on their own, although I'd like to get the rest of the lilies in today. Is there another area of the house that requires my attention?" Her inquiry was light enough, but he sensed a bit of disappointment - she didn't want to abandon the gardens to be sequestered away in the house.

            "Not...precisely." She wouldn't be pleased that he had read her mail - but hopefully she would be mollified by the prospect of traveling. "That letter you received yesterday -"

            Her face closed up instantly like a flower in the shade; she turned away, diverting her attention to the flower beds, where she scooped away handfuls of dirt to make a hole for the roots of the lily. "It was nothing," she said curtly. She set the flower in its place, packing dirt around the roots, mechanically repeated the process with yet another flower.

            Damn - that suspicious tightness about her jaw, the pursing of her lips; she was more affected than he'd anticipated. Though she might not vent her irritation to him - he was, after all, more or less her employer for the time being - inside, it clawed at her, made her resentful, bitter. The gardens were a poor substitute for her freedom - like her beloved stargazer lilies, she would always be searching for the sky.

            "It wasn't _nothing_ ," he said at last. "Surely you'd take on the job if -"

            She gasped her outrage, turning on him furiously. Her eyes narrowed; she would have dearly liked to castigate him for his meddling in her affairs, his gall in reading letters that did not belong to him. Instead she thought better of it, turned away again, ground out heatedly, "Of course I would. However, I have _other obligations_." Her hands speared the dirt viciously. "Clearly my time is better spent here," she said with scathing sarcasm. "Choosing _wallpaper patterns_." She plunked a bloom in the hole. "Besides, even if I _did_ have the time, I haven't the ship - it was confiscated, if you'll recall."

            He pinched the bridge of his nose, reminded himself that she was right, that he deserved the scornful words she slung at him. "If we might have a single civil conversation -"

            "I'm just the help, Balthier. You don't _converse_ with the help. You give them their orders and go about your day." There was a wealth of bitterness in her voice, a hopeless melancholy that he had been attempting to alleviate, except that she wouldn't give him a chance. Frustration bit at him, coalesced into irritation.

            "Fine," he snapped, rising to his feet. "Finish what you can here by no later than four, and leave your instructions for the rest. We'll be leaving for a day or two, so pack what you'll need - and _no damned dresses._ "

            She staggered to her feet, startled by the vehemence  in his voice. "What?" she asked. "Why?"

            "Does it matter? I'm the master, aren't I? I give instructions and they are carried out - isn't that the way of it?" He knew he was behaving abominably but couldn't bring himself to care. If she was bound and determined to be in a snit, well, then, he'd let this farce play out her way. "Four o'clock - no later." He turned on his heel, stalked towards the house.

            " _Balthier_ ," she called, bunching the stiff fabric of her skirts in her hands to take off after him. She was leaving streaks of dirt on the cloth, but didn't care - it could hardly make the dress less appealing than it already was. "For the gods' sake, what are you _thinking_?"

            He heard her rapid footsteps behind him as he crossed the threshold - if she was going to pursue him simply to continue an argument, she damned well would do it beyond the ears of the workers in the garden. He had not anticipated, however, the heavy sigh that reached his ears; she had stopped at the threshold - her boots were caked with dirt and mud. Unwilling to sully the pristine carpets, she dropped her bunched skirts, mustered her dignity and squared her shoulders. She shot him a mutinous glare as she turned away, surrendering the fight.

            He made a rough sound in his throat; only a week in, and he already wanted to throttle her. Bloody obnoxious woman was going to be the death of him - if he didn't kill her first. And if one of them didn't bend, they'd keep going round and round like this forever. But she had bent so far in the past that she had broken; he would have to bend enough for both of them.

            He thrust out his hand and growled, " _Stop_."

            She hadn't gotten far, but fisted her hands at her sides as she faced him, snarled, " _What now_?"

            He thrust his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to jerk it out by its roots. "You," he snapped, "are the most maddening, insufferable, insolent female it has ever been my misfortune to meet." Her cheeks flushed an angry red, her lips flattening into a firm line. "You're not a damned servant," he continued, "so you had best stop behaving like one. You haven't the temperament for it, anyway." Servants did not wear their fury so clearly on their faces, didn't glare daggers at their employers.

            "Is that all?" she gritted out from between clenched teeth. Then, as a petty taunt, she tacked, " _Sir_ ," onto the end.

            Good gods, he was _really_ going to kill her. "No," he ground out. " _Must_ you be so bloody obstinate?"

            "Must _you_ be so loathsome?" she countered caustically. 

            A muscle ticked in his jaw, blood pounded in his head. "Do you, or do you not, wish to go bounty hunting?" he inquired stiffly.

            For once, he had the gratification of having got one over on her - her mouth dropped open in surprise; she gaped at him wordlessly for a few moments before she managed to recover her voice.

            "I...I beg your pardon?" she gasped at last.

            "As well you ought."

            She huffed her irritation, folded her arms over her chest. "I mean to say, what, exactly, did you mean by that?" Despite the sulky annoyance in her tone, her fury had fled - banished, he thought, by a sort of cautious hope. She didn't dare expect him to mean it, probably wondered if she'd misinterpreted his words...but the slightest chance that he meant what she thought he might lit a spark in her eyes that had been absent these last few days.

            His own exasperation evaporated in the face of that wary look. She would not expose herself to injury again willingly; she had lost the ability to trust in anyone - most especially him. And so she took refuge in sarcasm, hiding behind her ill humor in an attempt to camouflage her doubts, her desires, so that they could not be used against her.

            With a heavy sigh, he strode back towards her, gratified to see she stepped nearer to the threshold as he approached. "Is it possible, do you think, that we might conduct a civil conversation after all?" he asked, and if his tone was still the tiniest bit snide, well, she'd simply have to bear it.

            Her eyes drifted away from his, and she nervously tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "I suppose," she muttered, shoving her hands into the pockets of that infernal starched pinafore. Perhaps it was petty and spiteful, but he didn't imagine the dirt she'd rubbed into the blasted thing would ever be fully washed out, and was profoundly grateful that the garment was likely ruined.    

            From his pocket he retrieved the letter she'd discarded, waved it before her. "If you want to go, we go together," he said. "In the _Strahl_ , as partners. You're not to go rushing in on your own, you're not to go wandering off."

            Her face had changed, softened into incredulous wonder. Her golden brows arched over wide, wide eyes, full of astonishment, joy. "Really?" she breathed.

            "Yes," he said. "And no damned dresses," he reiterated for good measure.

            The smile that blossomed across her face was glorious; she glowed with pleasure, helplessly delighted. Her hands slipped from her pockets to cover her mouth, further streaking her face with dirt. She looked giddy, thrilled, her eyes suspiciously bright. She blinked rapidly - fighting off tears, he imagined.

            He hadn't seen her smile like that since...he'd _never_ seen her smile like that. He'd never given her reason to. A sobering thought - it had taken so little to make her happy; just a bit of freedom, the promise of a few days of adventuring. But for his own carelessness, he might've achieved this a year ago. Instead here she was, covering her radiant smile to conceal her happiness, as if it were a weapon that might be turned on her.

            "No dresses," she agreed in a choked voice. At last she composed herself, clearing her throat awkwardly. "I've got to finish up the flower beds."

            "Four o'clock," he said. "The _Strahl's_ fast, but it'll be a long flight nonetheless, and I'd prefer to arrive at a decent hour."

            She nodded her assent and quickly scurried away, her bright hair whipping behind her as she flew across the lawn.

            And he wondered, with no small amount of astonishment, how far he would go to protect that brilliant smile she had desperately tried to hide.

            --

            Precisely at four, Balthier descended the staircase into the foyer to find Penelo awaiting him, a small brown traveling bag at her feet. The carpeted stairs did not betray his passing - his boots were utterly silent upon it, and so he paused to observe her in this moment where she thought herself alone.

            As requested, she had left behind that godsawful dress, opting instead for an icy blue blouse that, if not exactly conservative, left a bit more to the imagination than some of her other tops. While the fabric banded around her breasts was opaque, just beneath them it turned translucent, a shimmering veil that covered her midriff but did not obscure it from view. Paired with grey, form-fitting leather pants, she looked at once elegant and daring. Though her hair was still neatly secured with ribbon, her earrings were back in place.

            She fidgeted as she waited, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, tugging her hair over her shoulder and raking her fingers through it. Her eyes kept straying to the clock on the wall - it hadn't gone even two minutes past, and she was already so impatient to leave.

            His boots hit the marble floor and she turned, startled by his sudden appearance. Somehow she'd made the time to scrub her hands and face clean of the dirt she'd acquired working in the gardens. Her hands she clasped behind her, rocking on her heels.

            "You're late," she said, with a pointed glance at the clock.

            "I was not, in fact." He nodded to the landing above the stairs; her lips pursed in disapproval at the implication.

            "Spying is such a juvenile pastime," she muttered irritably, but her cheeks had flushed in embarrassment.

            "Ah, but I'm the master of the house. Surely what occurs within it is my business." He paused contemplatively. "That reminds me - where _did_ you unearth that appalling dress from?"

            She reached down, grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder. "There's a whole trunk full of them in the attic above the servants' quarters. Can we go?"

            "In a moment." He turned, shouted, " _Entro!_ "

            A few moments later the butler appeared. "You bellowed, sir?" he inquired, with an insolently arched brow. Penelo coughed to disguise a flutter of laughter, widened her eyes innocently when Balthier turned to glare at her.

            "I am told," Balthier began, "that there is a trunk of dresses in the attic above the servants' quarters. I suspect they were the servants' uniforms from years past." He favored Penelo with a benevolent smile. "Burn them."

            Penelo gasped. "You can't do that!"

            "I believe I just did," he replied - perhaps a bit more smugly than was strictly necessary.

            Entro cleared his throat. "Miss, he _is_ the master. He can do as he likes in his own home."

            Balthier took that to mean that Entro didn't care for the hideous dresses any more than he did. "You might search her room as well - she could have more of them hidden away. Burn them all; I shall be extremely displeased if any of them remain when we return." He turned, headed towards the door, and tossed over his shoulder, "Come along, Penelo."

            "Balthier," she hissed as she stomped after him. "I _wear_ those!"

            "Not any longer."

            She made a furious sound in her throat. "I've got to have _something_ to wear!"

            He waved dismissively. "You've got plenty of things," he said. "You don't need those - and _I_ don't want to have to look at them ever again." Really, he ought to have banished them before now. The mere prospect of the unsightly things being burned was enough to put a bounce in his step.

            Of course she argued with him all the way to the Aerodrome, while he limited himself to bland, single-word responses wherever possible. She couldn't possibly have any liking for the dresses herself, but she _had_ clutched desperately to the image they presented. But she didn't need it - and he had hated seeing her stifle herself to conform to the expectations of foolish idiots whose opinions shouldn't matter to her a whit.

            And she was still nattering away crossly as they boarded the _Strahl_ : "If I had access to my funds, I would have purchased some suitable clothing."

            He dropped into his chair, started the engines, wished she'd taken up the chair next to him because she'd wanted to be there rather than because she felt the need to chastise him. The _Strahl_ lifted off lightly, out of the Aerodrome and into the open sky.

            "If you had access to your funds, you would waste it by purchasing clothing you don't want to make a good impression on people you don't like," he chided. "They're _servants_. You won't earn their admiration by dressing the part they feel you should play. They'll show you the respect you deserve or they'll find themselves cast out without a reference. Your clothing is not the issue - the issue is that you expect _not_ to receive the respect you are due. Why?"

            Caught off-guard by the inquiry, she stammered, "I-I-I..." But she got no further, slumping in her chair sullenly, unable - or perhaps merely unwilling - to vocalize an answer.

            He elected not to press her further on that particular matter. How humiliating it would be for her to admit that she didn't feel deserving of it - after all, the last several years had been nothing but one soul-crushing experience after another for her. She had lost all sense of self, had been stripped of her pride, her independence; her innocence and naivety had been exploited. When she had been so cruelly slapped down each time she let herself believe that someone else might value her, was it really any wonder she had become unable to see her own worth?

            The thought made his throat tighten, his chest hurt. He wanted to reach out and stroke her hair, reassure her. But that wounded expression on her face - he had contributed to it. He had taught her not to trust, that it was safest to remain distant, detached. That terrible pain in his chest worsened.

            He cleared his throat, said, "Do you know, I think I actually rather like Entro."

            Her face changed, brightened. She smiled - not for him, but a smile nonetheless. The tiniest bit of praise, and she bloomed like a flower beneath the sun.

            She murmured reflectively, "When I was little, he was my best friend."

            He suppressed a chuckle. "Surely you had more, ah...appropriate playmates."

            A slow shake of her head, her cautious smile fading as the past overtook the present. "No, not really. We were upstarts, social climbers, you know. Wealthy, but not _noble._ There were other little girls, but they weren't friendly with me." She sighed heavily. "I would be invited to parties only to spend hours alone because none of the girls would speak to me. I think it was deliberate - they wanted me to know I was not one of them, to put me in my place." She ducked her head, staring at her fingers knitted in her lap. "It'd be more accurate to say Entro was my only friend, really. At least, until..."

            Vaan. Until Vaan. From whom she was estranged, according to Ashe. "And how _is_ Vaan these days," he inquired nonchalantly.

            A shrug. "Well enough, I expect. We don't speak." Her tone was matter-of-fact, succinct, but there was an edge to it, a warning that he was prodding too close to an injury, a subject she had determined to be off-limits.

            Of course he had to poke at it. She'd never cleansed those wounds, and they'd grown infected, spreading to contaminate the most vulnerable parts of herself. Left as they were, they would only fester further. "Still? But you were such great friends."

            A soft intake of breath, a tightening of her jaw. Her eyes were focused on the distant horizon, unblinking. But they were remote, seeing nothing before her, looking instead into the past. She swallowed convulsively, clenched her fingers so tightly that her knuckles cracked.

            He thought she'd decided to ignore his comment, hadn't wanted to acknowledge the pain that it caused. But at last she said in a ghostly little voice, "People like me don't have friends."

            His gaze swung towards her, appalled. "What the devil do you mean by that?"

            But she only sighed, propped her chin in her hand, stared straight ahead. There was the glitter of tears in her eyes, but they did not fall. Her face was blank, expressionless.

            "You have friends," he said roughly, tamping down on the fury that swelled, the frustration that roiled and churned in his gut. "If not Vaan, then Ashe - Ashe is your friend."

            "No," she murmured. "She's queen, now. She needs to distance herself from the undesirables. She only thinks she owes me something. It's my fault; I should never have gone back to Rabanastre. Someone with a past like mine...it's sure to come out eventually, and it can only cause problems for her. Better that I keep my distance."

            She had heaped so much blame upon her own shoulders, meekly accepted the guilt and shame that others had burdened her with. A year ago in Balfonheim, he had told her that her past was only who she had been, not who she had become - and she had believed him. For a few shining golden hours, she had believed him. And then he had shattered that, shattered _her_. It hadn't been the start of her descent into despair - that had begun well before he had ever known her - but he suspected it had been the end. The moment she had determined at last that there must be something fundamentally flawed within her. The moment she had given up hope.

            He took a deep, steadying breath, prayed for patience. "You are not your past. You've done nothing for which you ought to be ashamed." Perhaps if he repeated it often enough it would burrow into her subconscious and take root. "Queen she might be - disloyal she is not. Even if your past should come out, she would stand by you."

            A bitter laugh. "It doesn't matter - I won't be returning to Rabanastre."

            "For the gods' sake _,_ " he bit off. "What has become of you?" With a vicious curse, he dug around in the pockets of his vest, his fingers closing at last around the small, thin gold frame he had sought. He drew it out, shoving it beneath her nose. "What happened to _this_ girl?" he asked.

            For a moment her eyes widened, caught on the miniature - herself, so young, so full of hope. Finally she turned her face away. "She died," she said in a choked voice. "She died years ago, and there was no one who mourned her. She was a useless, insipid, stupid thing, anyway." As if it pained her, as if she could not bear to look upon the small portrait, she pushed his arm away clumsily - bumped his hand instead, dislodged the miniature, which dropped, clattered, and skidded across the floor.

            He pressed his fingers to his temple, clenched his jaw. "At some point," he said heavily, "you will have to determine how to go on. Will you spend the remainder of your life running? Or will you gather your courage and find yourself?" He jabbed a finger at the miniature, face down on the floor in the corner. "That girl is still a part of you. You owe it to her to _live_."

            "What I do with my life is none of your concern," she snapped, defiant, refusing to so much as glance at him.

            "Perhaps not," he said tightly. "But I know what it is like to run, Penelo. I spent years running, and it accomplished nothing - we all have to face our demons eventually. Or else be caught unawares when they catch up to us." He thrust his fingers through his hair, blowing out a heavy breath. "If you won't return to Rabanastre, what do you intend to do? What do you _want_?"

            "I want to be left alone."

            "What a clanker," he mocked. "You can't even be honest with yourself."

            She made an aggravated sound in her throat, clenching her fists so tightly she might well have drawn blood. "I want..." she whispered - but she couldn't name it, couldn't give voice to it. She pulled her legs up into the chair, curled in on herself, dropped her head into her hands. A defensive pose; he had pushed her past endurance.

            Poor tormented girl - she had fallen so far, lost so much of herself. She couldn't articulate her desires because she didn't believe she was worthy of them. Probably she felt she might as well reach for the moon, for all the good it would do her. It was safer to deny herself everything than to risk what little she had left on a desperate, hopeless dream.

            And he said, "When you can honestly tell me what it is that you want, I will see that you get it."

            Her head jerked up, expression baffled, wary. "Why?" she asked bitterly. "Why should you even care?" She scoffed her disbelief, turned her face away.

            Minutes passed in silence. He had expected that she would have fled to the safety of her room, but yet she stayed. Curled in on herself, yes - but she had stayed nonetheless. Perhaps she had taken to heart his allegation, wanted to prove she wasn't a coward, wasn't running.

            At last he spoke, in a low, even voice. "That girl in the miniature - I might as well have killed her myself. _I_ owe her, too."


	28. Chapter 28

            She had fallen asleep somewhere between Mount Bur-Omisace and the Paramina Rift. The last several hours had been spent in utter silence, as neither of them had dared to attempt any sort of conversation. He had not even managed to suggest that she retire when her yawns had come like clockwork, every few minutes - until at last her head had lolled back against the seat, her lids drooping to shade her eyes.

            It had gone past eleven when at last he touched the _Strahl_ down outside the small village they had been summoned to. Too late to rouse her and meet with those who had requested her assistance - that would hold until tomorrow. Now he had only to get her to shuffle off to bed at last.

            As the _Strahl's_ engines died down, he leaned over from his chair and gently shook her shoulder. "Darling, we've landed."

            She swatted ineffectually at his hand, grumbled something unintelligible, and buried her face in her arms.

            "Penelo, you cannot pass the night in a chair," he said in exasperation, and then promptly remembered that she'd slept in worse places. Like the ground in a dank alley - for three years of her life. Nevertheless, there was no reason she ought remain in a chair when there was a perfectly serviceable bed available.

            "Come on, then," he said, slipping his arms beneath her to lift her from the chair. At first she made a sleepy sound of protest, straining away from him. But as she was lifted into his arms, lacking the stability of the chair beneath her, she clung to him instead, tucking her head against his shoulder and looping her arm about his neck. Her warm breath upon his neck was stirring; he tried in vain to remind himself that were she lucid, she would want nothing to do with him. He was merely a vehicle at the moment, ferrying her from one place to another so that she would sleep comfortably and wake rested.

            But her hair teased his chin, soft wayward strands that had escaped the confines of her ribbon to curl about her face. With a sigh, she turned her cheek to his shoulder, nuzzling like a kitten seeking attention. Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, raking through the cool strands, nails scraping across his skin. He suppressed a shudder - she wasn't even conscious, and she could affect him so strongly.

            His thoughts narrowed to a single noble goal: get her in bed. No, damn it - _put her to bed_. That was it. Six steps down the corridor, slide open the door, get some nightclothes on her...no, too risky. His restraint had always been compromised where she was concerned. Best simply to tuck her in and let her sleep as she was.

            Still she stroked his hair like a child might a beloved stuffed animal, made a sweet, soft sigh. He had never known her to sleep quite so deeply - but then, probably this last year of comparative safety and security had vanquished any propensity to sleep lightly. There was no need to guard herself against a nonexistent threat - she had slept within the palace, or on her own airship, fearing no intruders. And, too, she had worked herself to the bone this week. Probably she was simply exhausted.

            Six steps. It wasn't so very far, but she was settled so comfortably in his arms that he was loath to risk jostling her awake. But he could still step lightly when he had to; he hadn't lost the entirety of his skills this past year. She didn't so much as stir as he eased down the corridor, shifted his hold on her only long enough to slip the door across its tracks into the wall. Then two more steps to the bed - he eased her onto it and she murmured in discontent as his warmth was replaced with the cool covers at her back.

            He soothed her with the light stroke of his hand over her soft hair - hair that remained bound in that awful ribbon. That would have to go; he plucked at the tie until it loosened, spread her silky hair over the pillow. The ribbon he tucked into his pocket; she would not be getting it back. If he never saw her bind her hair in that careful, rigid manner again it would be too soon.

            Her boots - those would have to go as well. She could hardly sleep comfortably in them. At the back of his mind, a niggling bit of conscience shrilled that he was merely searching for any excuse to touch her. He shoved it away ruthlessly, seized instead on a dark and cunning thought - he didn't _require_ an excuse. He had in his possession - or, rather, his solicitor's possession - a document that bound them in promise of marriage. Until that dissolution document had been signed and filed, she was legally his. And he had every right to see to his bride's comfort. Of course he did - he might even be lauded for so thoughtful a gesture. Though not by her, certainly.

            _No_ , blast it - she was owed respect, consideration. She had agreed to his dreadful scheme; she had _not_ agreed to be pawed at by her abysmal excuse for a betrothed.

            Still, those boots - she could hardly object to that. He eased them off her feet carefully, placing them on the floor near the foot of the bed. As if pleased to be relieved of them, she curled up on her side with sigh, drawing her legs toward her chest. The movement spread her hair across the pillows in artless abandon. Without conscious thought, he had reached out to sift his fingers through the cool silk of it. It slipped through them, soft as a whisper, smelling faintly of wildflowers. A faint frown etched her brow; she couldn't even find peace in sleep.

            _People like me don't have friends_.

            He wondered absently what it had cost her to make that admission. It wasn't true, of course - but it was terrible enough that she believed it. And he recalled her letters, the carefully-printed correspondence from the child she had once been, desperately seeking friendship across the miles from a boy she had never met because in her own land she had only been rebuffed and ostracized.

            And he had failed her, too, though he had never known it at the time. All she had ever wanted was a friend, somewhere to belong - his breath caught in his throat as it tightened like a vise. Just...simply to belong. Her whole life she had been an outsider, walking the cusp of two worlds, welcomed in neither. A delicate balancing act, one that had never been appreciated or respected. Of course she would fall - and she had, so far, sinking to a dark and lonely place she could not crawl out of because no one had ever given her the tools.

            She had given up her home, renounced the land of her birth, had spent the past year sailing the skies because she had no other place to go, no roots, no one to return to. There was nowhere she belonged, and she had given up the search. And that lonely child had been locked away somewhere deep within her, a perpetual prisoner, her desires eternally unrealized, unheeded.

            With hands that trembled, he smoothed her hair away from her face - in her sleep she turned her face into the pillow, but it was a poor substitute for the arms that ought to be holding her, protecting her from the world that had so mistreated her. As he gently eased the blankets from beneath her and drew them over her, he wondered how long it had been since someone had performed this task, tucking her securely into bed like a child. How long since someone had doted upon her, how long since she had been cosseted?

            She mumbled her confusion as he tucked the covers over her shoulders, stroked his fingers through her hair. Hazy blue eyes opened, uncomprehending, unfocused - but he soothed her with a murmured endearment, bussed a kiss to her forehead, and she subsided with a sigh of contentment, snuggling deeper into the covers.

            She had only ever wanted to belong. Such a simple wish, and yet she felt even that beyond her reach. But she had fit in his arms as if she had been made for them; his heart had ached for her as if her pain had been his own, as if it recognized the part of itself that had been lacking. Fran had suggested as much a year ago, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. So she _did_ belong, even if she didn't know it - his perfect partner, his missing piece.

            And yet the fact remained - _he_ might not be _hers_.

\--

            Penelo awoke the next morning in a bed, despite being quite certain that she had fallen asleep in a chair. She hauled herself upright with no small amount of effort, rubbing at her eyes, struggling to grasp at the fuzzy threads of memory that flittered through her brain.

            There had been the gentle admonishment that she couldn't sleep in the chair, then the strange sensation of being lifted, cradled in strong arms. Then those arms had shifted her, carefully placing her upon the bed, removing the ribbon that bound her hair to spread it across the pillow. Her boots had been plucked from her feet, the covers drawn from beneath her and tucked around her. And whenever she had stirred, there had been that soft, soothing murmur, lulling her back to sleep. Of all the myriad liberties he might have taken, he had elected, for some reason, only to put her to bed like a child.

            Vaguely she recalled rousing from sleep to see Balthier's face swimming before her eyes - she had assumed some sort of dream, unable to reconcile the man who stroked her hair from her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead with the man who had stolen everything from her. But for just a few moments, she had felt...different. Not so very alone.

            Ridiculous. Was she truly so desperate for companionship, for affection, that she would read more into it his actions than there could have been? To search out kindness in the capricious actions of the man who had betrayed her so utterly? She was not so pitiful as that.

            She scrubbed at her face, heaved a sigh. There was no sense in trying to decipher it; he was ruled by whims and flights of fancy. So she thrust the disturbing thoughts from her mind, banishing them to the far reaches where they could not intrude upon her in the waking world, and rifled through her bag for fresh clothing.

            Her boots had been placed on the floor at the foot of the bed. She slipped her feet within them. Her ribbon - _that_ was missing entirely.

            Balthier - he had taken it; for some reason he had decided he didn't care for her hair to be bound in it. She had known it, of course, had borne witness to the grimace of distaste he could never quite conceal. He hadn't cared for the dresses she'd scavenged from the attic, either, had ordered them burned rather than allow her their use. Probably the severe cut had offended his delicate sensibilities; they were hardly in the height of fashion. But the ribbon she needed, and she would have it back.

            She slung her quiver over her shoulder, collected her bow, stomped out of the room and onto the deck. Of course he had already risen, was seated in his chair on the deck, his booted feet propped upon the console, hands folded behind his head.

            Without preliminaries, she thrust out her hand. "My ribbon," she said.

            His brows rose. " _My_ ribbon," he corrected. "You've pilfered it from _my_ house; that makes it mine."

            "Fine. _Your_ ribbon." She did not retract her hand.

            He waved dismissively. "No; I think I shall keep it."

            "Your hair's a bit short to suit," she snapped waspishly.

            He only chuckled at her bristling indignation, unfazed by her tone. "Perhaps, but I prefer your hair as it is. You ought to wear it down." Just now it was soft and sleep-tousled, like she'd just rolled out of bed. Which, he supposed, she had.

            Between clenched teeth, she managed, "I'm an archer. I wear my hair up when I'm on a job because it's practical." To demonstrate, she reached over her shoulder and seized an arrow from her quiver. She pulled it free - as expected, it tangled in her hair.

            With a muttered expletive, he thrust himself out of his chair. He batted her hands away, gently untangling the tip of the arrow from the cluster of curls it had caught in, handing it back to her upon removal. From his pocket he fished out the ribbon he'd stolen from her, neatly avoiding her hand when she grabbed for it.

            "Stand still, you impertinent baggage," he said. " _I'll_ do it; you'll only muck it up."

            "I _beg_ your pardon."

            He ignored the scathing retort, said only, "Yes, well, you should - the way you torture your hair into perfect compliance ought to be a crime." Not a single strand out of place, absolutely regimented - it was appalling.

            His fingers swept her hair back, carefully collecting the wayward curls, wrapping the ribbon around the hank of silvery locks, and securing them with a bow at the nape of her neck. Less precise than she would have managed, he was sure, but somehow infinitely more fitting. It would no longer impede her draw, but it was looser, softer, with a few flyaway strands that curled about her cheeks.

            She blew out an irritated breath, stirring the baby-fine bangs. "May we _go_?"

            "Of course. I was only waiting on you." He favored her with an indulgent smile. If all she had to complain of this morning was his acquisition of her hair ribbon, he supposed it was a blessing. He collected his pistols, shoving them in their holsters.

            She wondered if he was truly prepared for this - he might have been a pirate, but bounty hunting was really a great deal different. For one, bounty hunters operated within the constraints of the law. A new and novel concept for Balthier, she was certain.

             So here the advantage would be hers: she had been a successful bounty hunter for nigh on a year now. Here he was the student; she had proved to him her competence, after all, what with the way she had apprehended him in Rozarria.

            "The village," he said as they exited the ship, "is just over that rise. I thought it wisest not to broadcast our presence." To the east, a walking path climbed up a small hill - hardly more than a five minute walk.

            A reasonable decision; she would have done much the same. He matched his steps to hers, side by side as they trudged up the hill toward the town. He seemed to be in a rather amiable mood for reasons she hadn't been able to discern. It was...disconcerting. Not that he was being pleasant, but that she rather thought he was making an _effort_ to be pleasant. He needn't have bothered; their bargain assured her compliance. What reason could he have to affect such an attitude, to pretend that they were on equal footing?

            The town came into view over the rise; nothing particularly noteworthy. It was a typical outlying town, with the prerequisite small, sturdy buildings, each laid out along either side of a dirt road, beaten flat and even by years of foot traffic. A town like this wouldn't have more than a few vendors and some simple townsfolk. It would be a prime target for the lowlier pirates; without any law enforcement of its own, the people were largely communal and dependent upon one another for safety. Any enterprising pirate could relieve the merchants of their wares and gil with little fear of reprisal.

            It was easy to steal from those who had no means to protect themselves. And the merchants' wares would be largely unsecured, for in a town as small as this, who would bother to lock up their things? Penelo guessed the town had less than fifty occupants in total; it wouldn't be difficult to track down the person who had sent her the note.

            Within minutes they had their direction, after a short conversation with a vendor from whom they purchased a bit of breakfast.

            The petitioner was, ostensibly, the founder of the tiny town, if a town of so few people could merit enough consequence to give its first settler the title of 'founder.' Her name was Cataryn, and she was so pleased to make their acquaintance that she nearly wept with relief.

            Cataryn recounted the tale of the havoc wrecked upon them by the unscrupulous pirates, and it was worse than Penelo had expected. Far from the gentlemen thieves that most sky pirates seemed to aspire to, these were brutish louts, not content to skulk in shadows and strike under cover of darkness and only when their target goods were left unguarded. These villains had no issue with brandishing weapons, making off with every last bit of gil they could and then destroying anything they didn't see fit to take with them just for the malicious pleasure of it.

            To Penelo's utter surprise, Balthier had been just as incensed as she; he had offered his condolences and assured Cataryn that the town's tormentors would be brought swiftly to justice.

            Penelo smoothed her fingers over the warrant papers that Cataryn had sworn out when she'd last visited a major city - they offered a vague likeness of the two men responsible for the town's terror, the promised reward, and the signature of Rabanastre's chief magistrate. To be brought in dead or alive - it was there in ink, all perfectly legal.

            And yet, for Penelo there was a lingering sense of unease.

            "What's troubling you?" Balthier inquired, once their meeting had concluded and Cataryn had taken her leave of them, assured that the safety of her town was left in good hands.

            Penelo hesitated, somewhat surprised that he had taken note of her apprehension. "I've always gone after lone targets in the past. But there's a pair of them this time - it'll be risky."

            She was thinking in solitary terms again - as though he didn't exist, as though she would be taking down these marks alone. He ruthlessly shoved aside the brief flare of irritation; she was accustomed to working solo, of course she would fall into familiar patterns.

            "Then we shall be evenly matched," he said carefully. She darted a glance at him, quizzical. He pasted on a bland smile. "Partners," he reminded her. "We're working _together_. Two of them - two of us."

            "Oh," she said, in a vacant tone. "Of course." After a moment of silence she said, "I don't think my usual method will be particularly effective." Something in her voice suggested trepidation, reticence.

            His gut clenched - he was certain he was not going to like the answer to the question he had to ask. "What, pray tell, is your usual method?"

            An awkward one-shouldered shrug. "Much the same as I caught you," she said. "Really, it's rather efficient."

            Dear gods, he wanted to shout at her - really shout, and shake her until her teeth rattled in her pretty little head. He felt his jaw tighten, had to fight to keep the strain of it from coming through in his words. "Do you mean to tell me you've made a habit of - of luring your marks to your room and drugging them?"

            Wide-eyed, she turned to face him. "Of course not," she said.

            He blew out a breath, unbearably relieved.

            "Usually all it requires is dumping a bit of sedative in their drinks at a bar." She splayed out her hands, a helpless gesture. "Men are so arrogant - and the wanted ones are the worst of the lot. They never see it coming."

            He tensed, pressed his hands to his face, bit back the furious admonishment that rose in his throat.

            "Balthier?" she paused, baffled by the sudden change in him. Then, as she got a glance at his face, her brows arched impossibly high and she danced backward a step, out of reach - wise girl. "You're... _angry_?"

            " _Yes,_ I'm angry." He shook a finger in her face, gritted out, "Do you even understand the sort of danger you've been courting? _Never again_."

            An astonished flutter of laughter escaped her. "You're a fine one to talk - a former sky pirate yourself. It's my _job_ , Balthier, and I'm good at it."

            Logically, he knew she was right. Rationally, she absolutely had a valid point; he was hardly one to talk about taking risks. She had, after all, brought him down easily enough - he hadn't suspected a thing until it had been too late. But that didn't mean he had to be happy about it, that he couldn't be incensed that she would place herself in such danger.

            "You're an archer," he ground out. "You could take them out from a distance, and never place yourself in harm's way."

            "Well, yes - but they don't pay as much for a dead fugitive."

            "For the love of - you had _seven million gil_ in your account; you don't _need_ the money." Every word out of her mouth only increased the intensity of his fury.

            " _I_ don't, no. But I've pledged a monthly stipend to the orphanage in Rabanastre - which _won't_ be paid this month, no thanks to you. The money I collect in bounties goes to the children there, keeps them in clothes and food." She was angry now, too, fists clenched, offended. "I don't owe you explanations or apologies - my choices are my own."

            " _Not_ when we are working together." He took a deep breath, wrangled his foul temper under control. "These sorts of pirates I am familiar with - they're the dregs of humanity, a pestilence upon decent folk. Believe it or not, there's a sort of honorable alliance amongst pirates, and these are outliers, outcast even from criminals. They're dangerous because they're not typical gentlemen thieves; they rule by fear and terror. They plague towns like these because the people are helpless, frightened. They're cruel because they enjoy it, and they're armed - your ploys won't be effective against the pair of them."

            She considered that, falling back down to the flats of her feet from where she had lifted herself onto her toes, the better to shout her retorts into his face. "No, I suppose not," she said thoughtfully. "It's simple enough to catch a single mark, but two might be a problem. Unless..."

            He had a feeling he wasn't going to like this any more than he'd liked her last revelation. "You're _not_ going to be bait," he hissed. He'd be damned if she'd dangle herself before the pair of them like a worm on a hook.

            "No, no." She waved that away. "With two of them, it wouldn't work - but maybe a variation would. Surely they're not all that different from the other marks I've taken; they've still got to eat. And this town has a tavern, same as any other."

            A tavern that had surely been robbed and threatened, just as every other business had been. Most likely in the form of the villains patronizing it without payment, bullying the owner into compliance with the threat of violence.

            He was certain he saw where she was headed, and it was a damned sight more palatable than he had hoped. "Let's go," he said immediately. "We've got a few interviews to conduct before nightfall."

\--

            Nightfall found them at the tavern, with Balthier posing as a patron at the bar and Penelo serving drinks and food to the few customers that lingered, mostly travelers who had stopped for a hot meal before continuing on their journey.

            The owner of the tavern was only too willing to lend his establishment to their disguise; he had, as expected, lost a significant portion of his wares to the pirates who swilled his liquor with impunity whenever they chose to terrorize the town. On their first visit, they had shot him through the shoulder when he had demanded payment; he had never made that mistake again.

            Somehow, he had explained, they always seemed to know when new stock had arrived, helping themselves to several bottles of liquor and returning whenever they had run out. Based upon what they had made off with last time, he expected them to return within a day or so to replenish their stores with ill-gotten gains pilfered from his stocks.

            Still, they had been in their places for several hours. And as much as he appreciated the sight of Penelo in the skimpy serving-girl uniform that the owner had provided for her, the owner was clearly ready to call it a night.

            With a sigh, the owner shook his head solemnly. "Perhaps tomorrow," he said. "But I'm much obliged for the assistance, miss," he said to Penelo.

            She had done a rather excellent job at it, all things considered - though Balthier was willing to bet she'd never waited a table in her life, she had clearly enjoyed indulging in small-talk with the few customers that had come in, easily keeping track of the threads of conversation as she poured drinks and served food.

            But as she was fiddling with the strings of her apron, the door crashed open with a thud as a booted foot slammed into it. The owner jerked in shock, fear. Penelo's hands reflexively reached for her bow, her arrows - but of course they had been cast off for the evening. Instead she dropped her hands to sides; she had a part to play.

            Two men appeared in the doorway, their mouths stretched into twin malicious grins. Of course they didn't care for the damage they might have wrought to the door, which _had_ had a perfectly acceptable doorknob. They were malevolent louts; they found their consequence in stirring up misery wherever they went.

            By the slouch of the remaining patrons in their chairs, as if they desired only to obscure themselves from view, to remain unnoticed by the intruders, Balthier knew that these were indeed the men they had been called in to apprehend.

            "What's this, then?" One of the men strode up to the bar, leering at Penelo in a way that made Balthier's fingers clench on his glass. "Got yourself a serving wench, now? Pretty little bit of goods." He made a swipe for her; seized her wrist.

            And she whispered, "Please, sir," in a tremulous voice. Balthier coughed to disguise a snort of disbelief; that subservient mien didn't suit her in the least.

            But the man had obviously been pleased by the feigned fear; probably he suspected her just as cowed as everyone else in the town. He released her wrist, barking, "Fetch us our ale, then, pet. And a couple of bottles of your best whiskey - to go." His gaze drifted downward, smirking as he ogled her breasts beneath the uniform. "A little female companionship wouldn't go amiss, either." And as she turned to pour their drinks, he pawed at her bottom. Only Balthier saw the narrowing of her eyes; when she at last slipped from behind the bar to deliver the drinks to their table, she had pasted back on that blank, docile expression.

            Only ten minutes, she had assured him. Ten minutes for the sedatives she had laced the glasses with to take effect. They wouldn't taste it in the bitter ale; they weren't looking for such deceit in a town they had already conquered.

            But it was so hard for him to watch. He knew that downcast gaze was an act, that the whispery voice she employed was only to lull them into security - but that didn't ease the fury that tightened his shoulders when one of them shoved down the shoulder of her blouse, stroked his fingers across her soft skin, slid his hand up the inside of her thigh as she sat, submissive, in the chair they had forced her into. 

            He didn't know how much time had elapsed, but it had felt like an eternity. But when the bolder of the two had jeered at her gasp of shock as his hand had dipped inside her blouse, he realized he no longer cared - he was going to kill the pair of them himself.

            The tavern fell silent as the legs of his chair scraped across the floor. He rose to his feet, unable to mask the menace on his face.

            So long as he had played his part, they hadn't cared about him - they were accustomed to people looking the other way as they helped themselves to whatever they wished.

            "You'll get back to your seat if you know what's good for you," the one with his hand down Penelo's blouse snapped, irate at the interruption to his good fun. But his pupils were dilated, blown, and his words had been slurred.

            Balthier ignored the irritated look Penelo shot at him - she was furious that he'd compromised their ruse. Instead he placed his hand deliberately on his holster. Perhaps the towns people weren't well-armed, but _he_ was a crack shot. "She," he snarled, "is not on the menu."

            "And what's it to you?" the man taunted. Together the men rose, prepared to do violence - until the quieter one took an abrupt nose-drive and collapsed across the table, sweeping everything adorning it to the floor with a mighty crash. For a moment he weakly attempted to haul himself off, but subsided at last, succumbing to unconsciousness. It was the distraction Penelo needed; she planted her dainty fist straight into the nose of the man who'd been mauling her, slipping out of her seat.

            The man howled, clutching his nose with one hand as he swiped furiously for her with the other. But he was not unaffected by the sedatives; he stumbled, fumbling for his weapon clumsily. Even as he brandished his gun, Penelo neatly kicked it from his hand, sending it flying across the room to clatter to the floor, useless. By the yelp of pain he gave, Balthier imagined she'd broken a few of his fingers in the process.

            She was more than good; she was amazing - she had a speed and grace he'd never seen from anyone other than Fran, who had her viera reflexes to thank. In moments, the man had been tossed to the floor like the rubbish he was, rendered completely senseless by a well-aimed kick to the back of his head.

            She _would_ have made an excellent pirate - but she was too honorable for that sort of work; she preferred ridding Ivalice of the filth that inhabited it.

            "Rope?" she prompted him, thrusting out her hand to him.

            And he'd been gawking at her like an idiot. Wordlessly he collected it from the owner, where it had been stashed beneath the counter, and together they made short work of the pair, trussing them up like chickens for dinner, to be delivered to Cataryn.

            By the expression on her face, she was torn between exuberance over a job well done, and annoyance that his untimely interruption might've blown the whole scheme. He imagined she'd have several choice words for him shortly. Gods only knew how he was going to explain the rage that had enveloped him in those tense moments - because he surely did not.

            --

            " _What_ were you thinking?" she snapped as they crossed the rise that would lead them out of town and back to the _Strahl_. A damn good thing she was struggling to keep up with his longer strides; his indifferent mask had slipped and he hadn't yet recovered it.

            "I assure you, I wasn't," he muttered irritably. At least the townspeople had been pleased; had they elected to stay overnight they would have been much celebrated - even now the riotous rejoicing was culminating in a spectacle the likes of which Balthier had never seen. People had poured out into the streets, shouting their thanks, wishing them well. Somehow it had been both off-putting and pleasant - he didn't much care for the surfeit of attention, but never had he been praised in such a manner, as if he had performed some sort of noble deed. And perhaps he had, though they'd paid well enough for the privilege.

            "I had it well in hand," she said frostily from behind him. "You might have ruined the whole -"

            " _Do forgive me_ ," he retorted, just as angry as she, "for not caring to see you mauled by a pair of lecherous brutes. Perhaps I thought I might be doing you a service."

            "Balthier -"

            "How should I have done?" he snapped, talking right over her. "Should I have just _let_ them -"

            " _Balthier_." Something in the tone of her voice set an alarm skittering through his brain, washing away the fury that had overridden his good sense. He jerked around - caught his breath, felt it leave his lungs on a shaken exhale.

            Quite suddenly, he realized what he had missed before. The thugs that they had apprehended were just that; ruffians too low and stupid to manage anything so complex as learning shipment schedules. They had gulped down tankards of  cheap ale, yet demanded the finest whiskey available to take with them. There weren't simply two pirates; there were three - the enforcers who had pillaged the town, and the mastermind, the leader who lurked in the shadows, giving them their commands.

            The leader, who had been lured out of hiding by the town's celebration, and now had Penelo's arms pinned behind her back and a wickedly sharp dagger pressed to her throat.


	29. Chapter 29

            Rational thought fled, expelled by the fear in those wide blue eyes, the sharp intake of breath as the dagger pressed against her soft throat, nicking her skin. A thin line of blood welled, pearled on the blade. She was a good fighter, fast, agile - and she hadn't a prayer of success with that dagger so steady, so tight against her neck. Her breath came in quick, thin pants, helpless, terrified.

            The man that held her was tall, elegantly dressed, whipcord lean and clean-shaven - the polar opposite of the two that had been taken down earlier in the evening. Not a brainless bully, one that could be goaded into a fight, provoked into releasing her; this man was angry, yes, but because his plans had been thwarted, his cronies defeated. His rage was purely in his eyes, cunning and calculated. Aside from that vindictive gleam, he had affected the bored, dispassionate look of a man who held all the right cards, knew he had won the fight before it had even begun.

            In a light, careless tone, the man spoke to Balthier. "I suppose I have you to thank for the capture of my men."

            Balthier said nothing, fearful that either confirmation or denial would result in the press of that sharp blade deeper into Penelo's fragile throat.

            The man's mouth tightened into a grim line. "For a bounty hunter, your skills are lacking. It was appallingly simple to take you by surprise." The satisfaction in his voice - he would kill Penelo without a second thought, no hesitation, no remorse.

            Balthier didn't bother to correct the misapprehension that _he_ was the bounty hunter; it would serve no purpose except for that dagger to fall upon her faster. As if the words had been dredged up from his soul, he asked in a rough voice, "What do you want?"

           A one-shouldered shrug, with the arm not holding the blade - he was drawing this out, enjoying Balthier's agony. "You have taken something from me; now I've something of yours." A malicious smirk. "Never get between a man and his whiskey."

            Of course idiot brutes like the ones he'd commanded were replaceable - his ire had been incited only by the inconvenience of it all, the fact that the supplies he had been commandeering from the town had been abruptly cut off. He was vengeful, conscienceless - the most dangerous sort of pirate.

            "You must know that you cannot kill her," Balthier said, in what he hoped was a reasonable sort of voice. "Any bargaining power you possess is lost if she dies." The threat hung in the air between them, tense and dark.

            "I don't need to kill her - yet," the man responded. "But so long as I have her, I am assured of your compliance." He scraped his cheek against Penelo's; she shivered in revulsion, inhaled harshly as the dagger scratched her throat.

            Balthier felt his fists clench at his sides, powerless to act - reaching for his weapons would spell death for Penelo; he could not draw and fire before the man would slice open her throat. "If you were going to kill her," he said at last, "you would have done. So you must want something."

            "Aren't we sure of ourselves?" the man mocked snidely. "Perhaps I simply enjoy watching you writhe in torment. I don't deal kindly with those who interfere with my plans - take this for a lesson. Her death will be on your head."

            Balthier ruthlessly shoved down the dread that choked him. This man dealt only in misery, took sadistic pleasure in the meting out of terror. The only way to win was not to give in to it. "What," he said again, evenly, calmly, "do you want?"

            A cold smile met the question. The man nodded to indicate the _Strahl_. "That ship," he said finally. "I've heard of her. Fastest ship in Ivalice, so it's said. Belonged to the pirate that died restoring Dalmasca's queen to her throne. I've made a bit of a name for myself as a sky pirate, but nothing like what I could accomplish with a ship like that."

            Penelo's eyes slammed closed, her breath escaping on a forlorn exhale, her shoulders slumped, resigned - and Balthier knew precisely what she was thinking. That her life was worth less to him than the ship he held so dear; that he would consign her to death rather than surrender the _Strahl_ now that it was back in his possession. Though indignant fury swelled, he tamped it down - of course she had no reason to expect anything else; he'd never given her reason to believe any differently of him.

            "Done," Balthier said in a clipped tone. "Give her to me, and the ship is yours."

            Her lashes fluttered at the words, her brows drawing together, uncomprehending, heedless of the blade at her throat, the rough voice that crackled with satisfaction near her ear.

            "When I have the codes, you'll get the girl," the man said. He nodded his head to indicate that Balthier should move out of the way. "You stand there - hands behind your head. No sudden moves, or I'll not vouch for her safety."

            Slowly they rotated positions, Balthier linked his hands behind his head as the man walked backwards up the ramp, his fist still clenched around Penelo's wrists, dagger still poised beneath her chin. To the man's right, the panel that would admit him upon acceptance of the code. He would have to release her wrists to enter it, but with the dagger at her throat he would not deem it a great risk.

            It was precisely what Balthier was counting upon. He was not so foolish as to believe that the man would truly surrender Penelo to him - the pirate was too malicious for that, too viciously cruel. But with Balthier's acceptance of his offer, he had assumed his victory was assured, that he had bested the bounty hunter that had foiled his previous plans.

            Unfortunately for him, that arrogance would be his undoing, as it had with many who had gone before him. He had made a crucial mistake; he had not witnessed the detainment of his men, had wrongly assumed that it had been Balthier's doing. Well enough for Balthier's purposes; the man believed that Penelo was helpless, unable to fight back.

            But she was only quiescent so long as that blade was held to her throat, so long as she believed she would be released. And, unless Balthier missed his guess, she was about to be very, very frightened. Frightened enough to take a risk, frightened enough to provide an opening to Balthier.

            Balthier slowly, clearly began to recite the string of numbers that would unlock the _Strahl's_ door, his eyes locked on Penelo's face.

            The man unclenched Penelo's wrists. "Hands in the air," he ordered, drawing another thin cut along her throat as she hissed in pain even as she complied with the order, lifting her hands where they could be seen. He punched the numbers into the panel one at a time, growled in her ear ominously, too low for Balthier to hear, "You'll be a pleasant enough substitute for the whiskey, I suppose."

            A cold current of fear and disgust shivered through her as she realized he had never intended to release her. Her eyes met Balthier's grim stare; he gave a barely-perceptible nod. He had known, she recognized - he had anticipated this turn. That clear gaze burned on hers, as if he were trying to communicate wordlessly with her. Another subtle jerk of his head to the man who had her hostage.

            She took a tremulous breath; he didn't intend to let the man abduct her - but he needed her to give him an opening. If he drew his weapon without a sufficient distraction she would be dead before he could fire. He needed her to put distance between them.  

            She swallowed hard and gave a tiny nod back, wincing as the blade tugged at her throat, sliced another shallow cut into her skin.

            In quick succession, Balthier rattled off the last four digits. And then, out of the corner of her eye, Penelo saw the man's head turn briefly toward the panel to enter them, eager to be on his way. Two seconds distraction - but it was all she needed. She slipped her arm beneath his, thrust the dagger away from her throat, drove her opposite elbow into his midsection, and dropped to the ground.

            Half a second later, there was the sharp report of a pistol, a spray of hot blood, the clatter of the dagger to the ramp, and then a body crumpling over her. Blood and brain matter splattered her face, her chest - she shrieked, and shrieked, ear-splitting screams breaking the stillness of the night as she shoved desperately at the limp shoulders that pinned her to the ramp.

            And then the body was dragged away, thrust off the ramp into the brush beneath, and she drew her first full breath since that dreadful man had pressed his dagger to her neck. Balthier helped her to sit, crooning soothing nonsense as one hand braced her back, the other lifting her chin to inspect the thin cuts at her throat.

            Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her breath coming in heavy pants. "He...he..." she breathed, as her lungs struggled to accommodate even the briefest of words. "He was going to -"

            "Hush. He'll never trouble anyone again." His voice was rough, choked with emotion. Her face, her arms were streaked with blood; it was matting in her hair - she looked like she'd come out on the wrong side of a bar fight, her eyes glazed with shock and fear. She bowed her head, pressed her cheek to his shoulder, trembled violently. Once before he had seen her like this; in Archades, the night Vayne had trapped her in his office.

            His fingers cupped the back of her neck, sliding into her hair. Against his throat, her breaths came quick and hard - she'd hyperventilate if he didn't calm her down.

            In the distance there was the thunderous sound of footfalls - a brigade of people closing in over the rise. Penelo jerked in his arms with a little cry of panic; her fingernails dug divots into his shoulders.

            He was positive it was nothing more than townspeople who had been drawn from their merriment by the gunfire, by Penelo's terrified screams - but just in case, he drew his weapon, prepared to fire.

            Cataryn appeared first, gasping with exertion as she flew over the rise, hand pressed to her chest.

            Balthier lowered his weapon, tucked it back into his holster. "Only Cataryn," he murmured to Penelo. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with, darling. Just hold on to me."

            Cataryn slowed upon approach, calling out hesitantly, "There was a gunshot and...screaming."

            Balthier jerked his head to indicate the body he'd pushed out into the bushes. "Your two pirates turned out to be _three_ instead," he said. "That one caught us by surprise. It did not end well for him."

            Grimly, Cataryn examined the body. "No, I can see that it did not. My apologies; I swear I have never seen him or I would have told you."

            Of course she would have - but that didn't change the fact that Penelo's life had been endangered. He had thought there would be safety in numbers, that if he were by her side he could protect her. Instead he had only been a distraction, and for his arrogance she had very nearly paid with her life.

            "No apologies necessary," he said at last. "It was my mistake. But I would be much obliged if you might see to his removal. And perhaps some bandages, if you've any - he managed to get in some superficial wounds. They'll want patching up."

            "Of course." She flicked her hand, gesturing over her shoulder to the townspeople waiting for her signal. "In the meantime, might I suggest you run her a bath? She looks like death warmed over, poor thing."

            A bath - yes, that was precisely what she needed. Her hands were cold and clammy, her hair and face streaked with blood. Those wounds would need to be cleaned before they could be dressed. "Yes," he said. "It may be a while - if you might simply leave the bandages on the ramp..." He would not leave the _Strahl_ open and vulnerable, not when Penelo was already so peaked.

            Cataryn caught the thread of meaning in his voice, nodded her assent. "Certainly - I will see to it myself." She beckoned for the townspeople waiting on her command, directed them around the side of the ramp to where the discarded body had been unceremoniously dumped.

            There was the crunch of footsteps upon the ground, the rustling of shrubs and snapping of twigs beneath the weight - and Penelo flinched with every sound, her body curling with tension. She had ceased shaking, but she clutched at him like a barnacle, as though he was the only steady thing in her world, the rock she would cling to when the tide threatened to sweep her away.

            "Sweet, I'm going to take you inside," he whispered in her ear. "You've nothing to fear any longer; the danger has passed." And it would not touch her again - she had suffered enough close calls in her life already. This ordeal had taken ten years off his life; he couldn't bear another.

            Slowly he slid his hand down her back, deliberately telegraphing his intentions to avoid upsetting her further, shifting her carefully to lift her into his arms. She eased her white-knuckled grip on him only fractionally, raising her head from his shoulder. Her eyes were blank, vacant, chilling in their emptiness.

            "Balthier," she murmured, in a small, weak voice - like a child's. "I'm so cold."

            Her white face, utterly devoid of expression and smeared with blood and gore, was like something out of a nightmare. "I know, darling," he soothed. "But we're going to get you warmed up - and clean - in just a few moments."

            From beyond the ramp, he heard a muffled curse, a muttered, "No sense turning _him_ in for a bounty; no one could recognize what's left of his face."

            Penelo whimpered at the untimely reminder that she was yet coated in the remnants of what had once comprised the dead man's head. Balthier swore viciously, snapped an admonishment at the men working, who mumbled hasty apologies.

            But they were lifting the body from the brush, and he didn't want Penelo to see it - and her eyes were so wide, unblinking, the pupils blown to encompass nearly the entirety of her irises, only a thin ring of blue remaining. He had hoped that the light inside the _Strahl_ would force them to retract, to reorient her, but they remained huge, still dilated with shock. He closed up the door behind them, lingered long enough to let her hear the lock engage, a measure of reassurance, a bit of added security for her.

            He found himself chattering senselessly to her, a pitiful attempt at drawing her out from the cold, dark place she had retreated to. She made no response, but her breathing had at least eased into a steady rhythm, as if lulled into complacency by the sound of his voice, the even cadence like a song, providing a pace for her to match.

            The _Strahl's_ washroom was tiny, designed for function rather than comfort, but she was slight enough to fit within the confines of the tub. He eased her to her feet - steadying her with his hands upon her shoulders until he was sure she could remain upright.

            "Can you stand?" he asked. "Just until I've run the water?"

            She swayed, but kept her feet, staring sightlessly into the distance, unresponsive; he bent to adjust the taps, the rush of the water deafening in the small room. From a cabinet he retrieved a washcloth, soaking it beneath the faucet. He scrubbed gently at her hair and face, erasing the drying blood, the bits of brain and flesh. Her blouse was ruined, the delicate silk soaked through with gore, sticking in places to her skin. She made no protest as he gently lifted it over her head, seemed not to notice. She had gone somewhere else in her mind, she might as well have been a doll for all the life she showed.

            Carefully he sponged at her shoulders, her chest - he didn't want bits of the dead man's flesh bobbing around in the tub with her; better that he clean her off first so that she would not be subjected to bathwater pink with blood, like some sort of macabre soup. Her pants were loose, clearly intended for ease of movement, reminiscent of the set he'd purchased for her a year ago in Balfonheim, tying at the hips. Only a soft pull at the strings, and they slipped down her legs in a cool wash of silk, pooling at her feet.

            At his urging, she teetered towards the tub, shakily scrambling into it, curling into herself, a tight defensive ball.

            "None of that, now," he chastised gently, plunging his hands into the water to carefully pry her limbs loose from their rigid clasp. "You need to relax - nothing can harm you here."

            His hands grasped hers beneath the water, rubbing her palms with his thumbs, encouraging her to ease her tight grip. Gradually they ceased to clutch at his, fingers uncurled and lax. He continued the careful massage up her wrists and arms, feeling her taut muscles relax slowly beneath his hands, until even her shoulders lost their stiffness, sinking to a more natural slope.

            She took a shuddering breath, her pupils receding slowly. At last her eyes closed, her head falling back against the rim of the tub. Not quite out of the woods yet, he guessed, but a good start - the color was beginning to return to her face. Her hair had turned to liquid gold, silky tendrils floating across the surface of the water; he dumped a measure of shampoo into his palm, gathering up the mass of her hair to coat it, massaging it into the sodden strands.

            "You're going to smell rather masculine, I'm afraid," he said. "I've none of those flowery soaps that women seem to favor."

            "It's fine." Her voice was soft, as though it required a great deal of effort to manage speech - he had been pleased to hear it at all. Her hands trembled as she lifted them from the water to her hair, made to sit up. "I can do it," she said.

            He brushed her hands away, pressed her back down. " _Rest_ ," he said firmly. "I assure you, I can manage." To his surprise, she subsided, allowing him to wash her hair and rinse it free of the soap. She didn't even protest when he lathered a washcloth, rubbed it gently along her limbs.

            He had been too preoccupied to notice earlier when he'd undressed her, but he couldn't help but to do so now as he washed her - no tan lines marred the golden perfection of her skin; she'd clearly spent a good deal of time sunbathing in her altogether. He wondered absently what other wicked things she had gotten up to. Beneath the water, his knuckles brushed her navel, felt the rub of warmed metal - her damned navel ring. She started at the contact, as if jerked from the hazy twilight state she'd been in.

            "What possessed you to pierce yourself?" he asked.

            A shrug. "It was a suggestion I entertained during the time I spent in Eruyt Village," she murmured. Then, as an afterthought she added, "With Fran."

             Ahhh - so _that_ was how she'd known he hadn't perished aboard the _Bahamut_. She'd been spending time in Fran's company. "Can't imagine how you managed that," he said. "As I recall from our previous journey there, they don't suffer outsiders gladly."

            "I killed the Grave Lord," she replied simply. "The viera, they said the Wood was grateful to me, that she called me 'friend' for relieving her of her burden. So I stayed on a while."   

            "I imagine these were acquired there as well, then?" he asked, his fingers tracing the shell of her ear, where those three silver rings glinted in the light.

            She nodded. "It's like a rite of passage, a symbol of the Wood's favor - Jote chose them for me. Fran's got hers back as well - she wasn't permitted to wear them when she left the village, but Jote said she'd earned the return of them." She touched the rings herself, pulled her wet hair back behind her ear. "The gold ones are just for viera, for natural daughters of the Wood - but I like the silver ones well enough."

            He liked them, too - the silver suited her complexion, and the rings themselves balanced the sweetness of her face, saved it from an overabundance of childlike innocence, hinted instead at the streak of wildness that lurked beneath the angelic exterior.

            She seemed to be slowly regaining her strength, collecting the scattered pieces of herself and reassembling them into something approximating the whole. But her face faltered as she touched her fingers to her throat, carefully prodding at the thin cuts there. "Will they need stitching?" she asked hesitantly.

            "I shouldn't think so," he replied. "Just a bandage or two. I'll see to it shortly, when you've done with your bath."

            As if she had only just realized that she was, in fact, naked in a bath with him kneeling beside the tub, she slunk further down beneath the water, folding her arms over her chest, her cheeks heating a vibrant pink. He resisted the urge to remind her that she had nothing he hadn't seen before, and the film of bubbles that had settled atop the water obscured her from view besides.

            Instead he rose to his feet, removed a couple of fluffy white towels from the cabinet to set them on the rim of the tub. "I asked Cataryn to bring some bandages; she'll have left them at the door. Take as long as you like." And he gathered up her ruined clothing and left, to give her a bit of peace in which to conclude her bath.

            --

            Cataryn had left not only bandages and salve but a tureen of hot soup, a perfect meal for a stomach that might be more than a bit unsettled yet. Balthier fixed up a mug of tea with a splash of brandy to calm Penelo's nerves, and returned to her room to sift through her traveling bag for a set of nightclothes to lay out for her.

            He found nothing, which baffled him. She was a planner, so very organized - she'd not have been careless enough to simply forget them. At last the realization struck - she'd not packed any because she did not wear them. He suppressed a groan; he did _not_ need that image in his brain at the moment, not when she was frightened, when she required care and comfort.

            She was damn well going to wear something tonight, if only for his sake. He retrieved a shirt from his dresser. It would do well enough to suit him - anything of his would drag on her. Moments after he returned to her room, he heard the bathroom door open. She appeared in the doorway, wrapped up in a towel, and started in surprise to see him awaiting her. Her hair was draped over her shoulder, still damp but clearly having been rubbed at with the towel to wick away the majority of the water.

            He coughed into his fist. "I took the liberty of procuring a shirt for you to sleep in, as you seem to have forgotten your nightclothes."

            That scarlet blush again, the indication he had been searching for to confirm that his assessment had not been in error.

            She snatched the shirt from his hand as he offered it, a frown of consternation etched between her brows. "Could you...?" She circled her finger, indicating that he should turn his back.

            With a long-suffering sigh, he did as she requested, waiting until he heard the squeak of bedsprings to show that she had sufficiently covered herself once again. The discarded towel was draped over the bedpost to dry. She had climbed into bed, yanked the covers up - the sleeves of his shirt swallowed her hands; only her fingertips peeped through. It was buttoned to the throat; or at least where his throat would have been - her shoulders were slim, the neck of the shirt dipped low, exposing her fragile collarbones and a fair bit below. She looked adorable and rumpled and so young - too young to have experienced so much ugliness and fear.

            Three thin cuts upon her neck, any one of which might've cut her life tragically short, closed those soft blue eyes forever. 

            "Cataryn brought you some dinner," he said conversationally as he cut bandages to fit the wounds, unscrewed the lid of the jar of salve.

            "That was kind of her," Penelo murmured. "But I'm really not -"

            "Soup," he interrupted. "Easy on the stomach. You've got to eat something, pet." He tipped her chin up, exposing her throat to delicately spread the ointment over the cuts. She held still as he affixed a couple of bandages, touching them gingerly when he'd finished.  

            "You're going to be fine," he said, mostly to reassure himself, as he pressed the mug into her hands and lifted the lid on the tureen to stir the soup before he settled it in her lap.

            She slanted him an odd look, said, "I know." She took a sip of the tea, pulled a face. "What's _in_ this?"

            "A bit of brandy. It'll help you sleep easier," he said, lifting the spoon to her lips.

            With an annoyed sigh, she took the spoon from him. "I can feed myself," she muttered irritably. Unfazed with her aggravation - she _had_ , after all, elected to eat - he settled back in his chair. Minutes passed in silence; she managed roughly half of the soup, eating slowly, methodically, as if she recognized the necessity even if she lacked the desire.

            When she at last surrendered the effort, he set aside the bowl and straightened the covers around her.

            Her hands were folded primly in her lap, her expression guarded, as though confused by his actions. "I don't need a bedtime story," she said. "You don't have to stay any longer." But she was horrified to hear the note of uncertainty that quavered in her voice, dropped her gaze to her hands, plucked absently at a loose thread on the blanket.

            He had heard it, too, knew she had weathered many difficulties alone. She wanted to be strong because she had no one she could rely upon. She had been forced to trust in him tonight; it had been born of desperation, necessity, only a fleeting, ephemeral thing. He had to believe it would come to her in time - but for now, he would lend what comfort he could.

            He kept his face carefully neutral. "If that is your wish," he said. "But in Archades, the last time you faced such distress, you complained of a nightmare. I thought you might not want to be alone." Her decision - she could send him away if she pleased.

            She hesitated briefly, her hands fisting in the blankets. Finally she asked, "Will you stay until I fall asleep?" Her voice was so small, so cautious, as if she were afraid that he might refuse even though he had been the one to offer in the first place. But then, she had had so much snatched away from her that she was afraid to reach out for anything.

            "I'll stay." His voice was rough, uneven. "For as long as you want me, I will stay."

            She settled her head on the pillow, turned her back to him, curled up in her usual fashion. "Just...just until I fall asleep," she whispered. "I don't want to be a bother."

            His eyes closed, his throat clenched tight with emotion. Long minutes passed before he was able to at last manage, without choking upon the words, to say, "You could never be a bother."

            But she was already asleep.


	30. Chapter 30

            Penelo had been strangely subdued since they had returned to Archadia the week prior. Her duties she carried out with unflagging dedication - her free moments were spent alone in her room or wandering the newly-renovated gardens, perched upon a bench beneath the shelter of the pergola, reading quietly or gazing over the rail at the fish leaping in the pond amidst the lotuses and water lilies.

            Balthier had developed the unfortunate habit of spying on her, watching from the wings, unseen, as she went about her day. He suspected she was still coming to terms with her ordeal, with the subtle shift in their relationship, attempting to determine what to make of it all - he wished he could help her, but whenever he came near she seemed to freeze up, to revert to a prickly, formal manner.

            Perhaps the only saving grace was that she hadn't made a fuss about the noticeable lack of those ugly grey dresses - Entro had done as requested and, if not _burned_ , at least gotten rid of every last one. So she had simply continued to wear her own things, and none of the servants dared to be anything less than perfectly respectful. Not that he would have tolerated anything less, regardless - but he thought that maybe even the overly dignified staff, while perhaps still too concerned with their own consequence, were beginning to warm up to her.

            Still, it was galling that he felt the need to sneak around in his own residence simply so that he would not risk disturbing her. He had held out the hope that she might seek him out in her own good time, but the days were passing too quickly, and she had thus far shown no sign of unbending enough to engage him in even the most passing conversation.

            She had undertaken the majority of household matters, leaving little for him to do. Even the account books had been surrendered to her when she'd put the request to Entro - and being left to his own devices was not nearly as satisfying as it once had been. After she retired for the night and he could cease tiptoeing about hoping to catch glimpses of her, he found himself frequently in his office dashing off letters to Ashe to keep her informed or otherwise in the library with Entro, plying the man with port and wheedling stories of Penelo's childhood out of him.

            Entro was, currently, his greatest ally in the house, and certainly the only one who could provide any sort of insight into Penelo's mind. From the butler he had learned that she had once been terrified of the dark, that she'd had two elder brothers - Emerick and Corben - who had died alongside her parents, that she had once dumped a bucket of water from a third-story window upon the head of an uppity noblewoman who had made crude remarks about her family. She had been full of mischief and laughter as a child, but as she had grown older it had been beaten out of her by the peers who had ostracized and snubbed her, until she had become at last a quiet, secretive shadow of her former self. In her loneliness she had constructed a shell for herself, an impenetrable barrier to protect herself against the ruthlessness of the life she had been born to.

            Entro was sure that a soft heart was yet hidden beneath the implacable mask she wore - he had seen it in her in her younger years. But it had been pierced too many times before and so she had locked it away, and trusted no one, expecting only cruelty and betrayal. The only people that had ever loved her were dead and gone, consigned forever to the past; with them had died her dreams of a future that held anything but bitterness and sorrow.

            Balthier was equally certain of her soft heart; he'd wounded it himself - he might as well have slipped a dagger between the bars of the cage she'd locked it in to carve out a piece. That injured girl was still in there somewhere. And each night he sat before the fire, holding the miniature in his hands - its frame dented from when she had cast it aside - he stared into the gamine little face painted there and wondered how he might draw her out of hiding.

            --

            Penelo rushed through the halls of the massive house late in the evening, clutching the most recent of the accounting books to her chest. She'd never cared overmuch for figures and sums, but a well-run house had a well-kept accounting book to go with it, and so she had spent the last two days poring over the ledgers, tallying up expenses and wages, and copying them down in neat, precise columns.

            Until she had come upon a recent entry, dated just three days ago, that had set her head reeling.  

            And so she had gathered up the book and flown out the door of her room, heedless of her bare feet or the fact that she'd already taken her hair down from the sedate plait she had bound it in. All thoughts of propriety, of the decorous manner she had been attempting to establish had fled, forced from her head by the burning question imprinted upon her brain, seared into her mind.

            She passed only a few servants who had not yet retired, and if they made any judgments regarding her appearance or her unseemly flight through the house, they wisely kept their peace. She was not their mistress, precisely - but those who had not been won over by her competence and fairness had at least been cowed by the mere threat of Balthier's rage were she maligned.

            One of the friendlier maids had given her Balthier's location as last she had known it, and directed Penelo to lower floor of the family wing. Hours ago, she had said, he had called for a bottle of port to be brought to the library.

            Penelo arrived at the closed double doors, prepared to knock when a low murmur of sound penetrated the heavy wood, followed by a masculine rumble of laughter - two voices from within. Balthier and...who?

            At last she gathered her courage, raised her fist and knocked swiftly upon the doors. The voices subsided immediately into silence, drawing out for a tense moment until at last a muffled, "Enter," resounded from within.

            Carefully she eased the door open, stepping within - the light was dim, only the crackling fire glowing in the corner. In a pair of wingback chairs settled before it, each holding a small glass of liquor were Balthier and...Entro? The butler had the good grace to look flustered; it was highly abnormal for the butler to be sharing a drink with the master.

            Balthier scrubbed his hand across his mouth as if to erase the traces of laughter that clung to his face. Entro cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling to his feet with an expression that approximated guilt. _Guilt_? Over what?

            Penelo found herself taking a small step back, fingers curling around the book in her arms, pierced by an acute stab of awkwardness - she had blundered into a private conversation, and neither man seemed to know what to do about it.

            "I didn't mean to intrude," she said at last. "I just....never mind, it'll keep until later." Abruptly she wheeled about, prepared to go.

            "No, stay," Balthier said immediately. "Entro was just leaving."

            She was certain it was a lie, but as if on cue, Entro promptly confirmed Balthier's claim, rising at once to his feet. "Quite right," he said, with a slight bow to Penelo. "I'll be on my way, miss." But his eyes didn't meet hers as he passed her on the way out the door, which he shut behind him in that effortlessly silent way that the best servants had all perfected.

            "You had something you wished to discuss?" Balthier prompted, absently swirling the liquor in his glass. While Entro's had been nearly empty, Balthier's was still rather full - and she didn't think it was by pure chance. That, coupled with Entro's unusual behavior...

            "Do you always share your liquor so freely with your staff?" she inquired finally, the account book temporarily forgotten amidst the spine-tingling certainty that some sort of mischief was afoot.

            He favored her with a sly smile. "Entro has a fondness for port. On occasion we indulge in a glass and a bit of conversation. Please, have a seat." He gestured to the chair so recently vacated by the butler. "Would you care for some port?"

            "No, thank you." Her brows drew together in concern - she did not move from her spot. "You were laughing when I knocked. What were you laughing about?" She heard the suspicion in her voice but was helpless to mask it.

            Balthier heard it as well, decided to put her out her misery. "As it happens, we were discussing you."

            "I see." Her mouth turned down petulantly, drawing into a frown of disapproval, perhaps more than a little offended. "And do I merit so much laughter, then?"

            "Only when you slip mice into the pockets of noblemen." Entro had offered up _that_ outrageous tale tonight; Balthier had laughed until he'd nearly cried.

            The frown deepened into a glower. "Entro's been carrying tales," she huffed in irritation. "And, for the record, that particular nobleman deserved it."

            "Of that I've no doubt. From what I recall of them, they're despicable almost to a man. You find the odd good egg here and there, of course, but the vast majority of them are hopelessly dissolute." Again he motioned to the empty chair. "Won't you sit?" It was the first time in more than a week that she'd sought him out, willingly subjected herself to his company. But that book clutched to her chest together with that wary expression...he had the feeling that this was not a social call.

            "No, I..." she hesitated, her white teeth worrying her lower lip. "I just...there's a problem. With the account books."

            "Oh?" He'd not seen them recently, had gladly left that task to Entro, who had taken up the task readily enough, promising quarterly reports to keep Balthier apprised of his financial situation. Balthier was not particularly concerned; even the extensive renovations to his home had scarcely put a dent in the massive fortune he'd inherited. If he wished, he could renovate the house every month for the next two hundred years before his funds ran dry.

            "It's just that...there's an entry for a...a payment to an orphanage." She said it tentatively, as if it baffled her.

            Balthier's face closed up immediately - damn Entro and his blasted meticulousness; he'd never meant for that to get marked down. But Entro was nothing if not thorough; of course it would have ended up in the damned book. 

            He shrugged, the picture of the indolent nobleman. "I'm certain it's nothing."

            " _Ten thousand gil_."

            "Nothing," he repeated.

            "To an orphanage." As if spurred to action by his indifferent attitude, she took a few steps forward. "In _Rabanastre_."

            Entro truly _had_ been thorough, then. He took a small sip of his port, prevaricating. At last he began, "Probably some old carry over from -"

            "It's dated three days ago!"

            Entro had been _exceptionally_ thorough. He didn't know whether he ought to praise the man or fire him. Instead he scrubbed at his face with his free hand, said in exasperation, "What is it you're asking me, Penelo?"

            "Did you...did you make it?" Another tiny step forward. "It was to my orphanage, wasn't it?"

            _Her_ orphanage - of course she would think of it as hers. It was in her family's home, funded by her contributions. A large part of the reason she was even here now was because he had threatened it, told her he would snatch it out from under its current owner, thereby relieving all of those innocent Rabanastran war orphans of their first home in years.

            But what could he say? He had already been revealed by a detestably scrupulous butler. "Yes," he said at last. "It was to _your_ orphanage."

            She swallowed hard, her arms tightening around the book. "Why?" she asked.

            "Do I require a reason? Mightn't I simply have more money than sense?" The smooth, uninterested response was pure deflection, and they both knew it.

            "Ten thousand gil - that's hardly an insignificant amount. It's more than triple what I provide them with each month, which keeps them quite comfortably." And there was also the fact that he did nothing without reason, without some sort of motivation. That he had _not_ drawn attention to it, that she had discovered it only as a single line buried in the account books, indicated that he had not intended to inform her of it. He had simply performed a noble deed for the sake of doing so - and that was worrisome, because it was so profoundly unlike him.

            "Ten thousand gil _is_ nothing - such a paltry sum will hardly beggar me."

            Again, not an answer, just another evasion. His hand was curled tightly around his glass, marked by tiny white lines standing out in stark relief with the strain - scars, she realized with a sense of wonder. His hands were lined in tiny scars, and she'd never noticed before. And then a scorching wave of shame washed over her as comprehension struck; they were the scars he'd acquired protecting her from splintering Sun Cryst at the Pharos - he'd covered her body with his, shielded her head with his hands, taking the brunt of the shards that ought to have hit her instead.

            Unpleasant thoughts; her mind wandering where it ought not, dredging up memories better forgotten. She didn't want to dwell on her painful past, reliving those bitter days. Instead she took a deep breath, and repeated her question yet again. "If it was nothing, why did you do it?"

            Those piercing green eyes focused intently upon her, until she shifted uncomfortably beneath the onslaught. He set his glass aside, leaving his hands free to settle upon the arms of the chair. "I don't believe how I spend my money is really any of your concern," he said, his voice imbued with gentle reproof.

            Her cheeks heated at the mild censure, eyes sliding away from his. Of course - she was essentially just an estate manager; she had no right to question his actions, to insist on an answer she was in no way owed. Stiffly, she said, "You're right; it's none of my business. I'm sorry to have disturbed you." She gave an obsequious little curtsey, the sort she knew he loathed, and turned to go.

            He let her get nearly to the door before he said, "It _isn't_ any of your business, but - come back here, and I'll tell you."

            Something in his voice...alarm bells trilled in her brain. She turned, pressed her back to the door. "I'd prefer to remain here."

            "I'm sure you would. However, if you wish for an answer, you will do as I have asked." His face was neutral, impassive, but the silky tenor of his voice had her feet bringing her forward before she had even realized that she had moved, as if compelled by some dark and subtle spell.

            She ought to have been warned by the minute curling of his lips just at the corners, that barely-visible display of male satisfaction. Instead, her feet drew her to a halt just before his chair, firmly planted to the carpet, awaiting his explanation.

            He heaved a beleaguered  sigh, scrutinizing her cautious expression. "What am I to do with you, my suspicious girl?" he murmured. "You poke and prod and press; you couldn't leave well enough alone if your life depended upon it. It's either kill you or kiss you - and I know which I'd rather." Like a shot, his hand thrust out to encircle her wrist, pulling her towards him as his opposite arm swept her legs out from under her. With a cry, she dropped the account book, toppling directly across his lap, as he had no doubt intended.

            To regain her balance she clutched at his shoulders, head whirling in confusion. And then his hands were stroking her face, fingers sliding into her hair, tilting her chin up, and she...she did nothing but curl her fingers into the starched white lawn of his shirt as his mouth slowly descended upon hers. She could have protested, could have shoved away - he was not holding her tightly, and somehow she knew that if she _had_ protested, he would have let her go. But her heart was pounding furiously in her chest, her breath coming in quick gasps, and she didn't know if her legs would even support her.

            And then...and then his lips touched hers, the lightest, softest caress, just a whisper of sensation. Her lips burned where his had brushed, her eyes slid closed, and in her throat she made a tiny whimper of sound. One of his arms came around her, braced against her back, drawing her up against his chest. He bent his head again, nipped at her lower lip, used the shocked gasp she gave to open his mouth on hers and slide his tongue deep. Sweet, hot, languid kisses followed, and she trembled with each stroke of his wicked tongue, each teasing nip. He tasted of the port he'd been sipping, rich and sweet, and her fingers clutched desperately at his shoulders until at last she gave up the ghost and slipped her arms around his neck.

            At the blatant show of surrender, he groaned deep in his throat, his arms tightening around her. That catch of her breath, the softening of her body as she trembled and quickened in his arms, caught up completely in the web of passion - she was not immune to him, as much as she would have wanted him to think she was. Despite her surprise, she had not given a single protest, had instead yielded so willingly, just as she had in Reddas' study a year ago. And now her arms embraced him, her lips clung to his, and she made such sweet sounds of pleasure.

            It wouldn't last; it never did with her. Too soon she would recall all the reasons why she ought to keep her distance and she would shove herself away and flee - but for now she was soft and pliant, her fingers sliding gently through the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring a protest when he pulled back. Her eyes were still closed, as if she were in a dream that could only continue as long as she didn't open them, basking in the feel of his thumb stroking her cheek, his fingers tangling in her hair. She was so starved for affection, for a few kind words, for someone to care for her. Perhaps even someone to love her.

            He smoothed his fingertips over the satiny curve of her cheek, and at last her lids lifted, her eyes a deep summery blue, dazed and dreamy. She was so lovely like this, her face flushed, her lips soft and full, her hair wild and curling wantonly around his fingers. He wondered if she would realize how perfectly she fit here, settled across his lap - how precisely she fit within the circle of his arms.

            But she blinked, and the eyes that had been so luminous with pleasure only moments before became flinty instead, her lax muscles firming into infuriated rigidity.

            He said, "It was important to you."

            Fury fled, bemusement winning out. "What?"

            "The orphanage," he reminded her. "With your funds tied up, you couldn't provide the monthly stipend you promised. I did so in your stead. Because it was important to you."

            He had thought - hoped, rather - that this news, the answer to the question she had posed, would bring her a measure of peace, would perhaps soften her towards him just a little. Instead it galvanized her into a flurry of movement; she shoved herself off the chair, nearly ending up sprawled on the floor in the process. She stumbled a few steps, righting herself at last to round on him, her chest heaving.

            "You don't care," she said in an accusatory whisper. "You couldn't possibly."

            "About the orphanage? Not particularly." He shrugged. "I've never been a candidate for sainthood before, and I've no inclination towards it now. But you I _do_ care for." The first time in his life he'd spoken those words aloud to the one they were meant for - and not quite as difficult as he might have imagined them to be.

            She flinched as though he had struck her, her expression one of wrenching pain - he'd expected shock, perhaps, but not anything like the agonized hurt he read there. How the devil could she be wounded by _that_?

            She collected herself, schooling her features into a tight, brittle mask. "I told you already - I won't whore for you."

            A surge of anger caught him, nearly swept him away - until at last it hit him like a blow to the stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs on an appalled exhalation. The payment to the orphanage, followed by that kiss - she thought he was trying to purchase her affections. She'd had enough similar offers, after all, in her days as a dancer, and more recently as a member of Ashe's court, if Ashe was to be believed.

            "I haven't asked it of you," he said. "Darling, is it so difficult to believe that I might care for you?"

            "Yes!" The helpless cry was dragged from her lungs, sharp and biting. Her carefully-composed mask fractured, the tears that glittered in her eyes poured forth, streaking her cheeks. Desperately she swabbed at them, but she couldn't hope to stem the flow.

            He rose to his feet, hands outstretched in a placating gesture. But for every step he took, she backed two away, and so he paused. "Why?" he asked simply.

             "It's not possible." The words came out high and thin, as though she had to force them. "People..." Her breath hitched in a gasp, and she drew in a shuddering breath. "People like me..."

            _People like me don't have friends_.

            He heard it, as clearly as if she'd managed to finish it. But it seemed there was more to it than just that, those words that had so wounded her merely to speak aloud. Dark and depressive thoughts that had only been reinforced over the years, with every rejection, every betrayal, every cruelty inflicted upon her.

            _People like me don't have friends. People like me must remain alone. People like me don't deserve to be loved._

Dear gods - she _truly_ believed that. His heart wrenched in his chest as she pressed her hands to her eyes, choked back a sob. Her shoulders sank, her ragged breaths died to whispery gasps, a hot flush burned in her cheeks - humiliation for what she had confessed to him.

            "Darling," he said as softly as he could manage, "That's not true, I swear it." He had contributed to that broken expression, that terrible hopelessness on her face. But the moment he stepped forward again, she skittered back.

            "How could I possibly believe that?" she said tonelessly. "How could I believe anything from you? I learned my lesson the last time; I don't need another one."

            He muttered a blistering oath, barely restrained himself from reaching for her - she would flee if he did, or else dissolve into hysterics again, and nothing he said would reach her. He smothered a bitter laugh - nothing he said would reach her anyway. He had destroyed her a year ago, and she had never recovered from it. If it wounded him to see what his thoughtlessness had wrought, that was the least of what he deserved, for she suffered it every day.

            "You don't have to believe me," he said at last, in a low, soothing voice. "You don't have to trust me. It is only my fault if you cannot. But you are doing yourself a disservice by holding yourself separate, taking blame upon yourself that was never yours to bear. If nothing else, I hope you will believe that."

            She shook her head reflexively, an instinctive denial, but her eyes were wide, unblinking, every muscle locked in tense preparation to run should he chance moving closer.

            And he braced himself for her anger as he said, "This business of hiding yourself away - it's going to stop. You cannot continue like this; from tomorrow on, I will expect your company at all meals, and I will accompany you at your daily tasks."

            Not anger on her face - _fear_. "What?" she whispered, horrified. "No, I -"

            "We had an agreement," he said determinedly. "All things considered, I have asked very little of you. In fact, I have instead indulged you at nearly every opportunity. I have asked nothing unsavory of you, and I have no intention of doing so - what I _have_ asked of you is obedience, and you gave me your word."

            "You said you wanted me to fix up your house," she said. "That's what I agreed to!"

            "And you've made great strides already," he said reasonably. "What shall it take - a week or so longer? That leaves four weeks remaining that you owe me. I shall have to come up with some other tasks to occupy your time, but I shan't leave you to them alone any longer. Resign yourself to it, sweet - you _do_ want that dissolution contract, do you not?"

             The anxiety that drew her brows together gnawed at him - but she needed a nudge out of her shell, out of her comfort zone. He knew he'd not hurt her, even if she did not.

            "Tomorrow morning, then," he said. "I'll expect you at breakfast. Don't be late - I'd rather not drag you from your room, but if I must..." He shrugged.

            With a sharp nod to communicate her understanding if not her acceptance, she turned to leave. There was a fragility to her movements, a brittleness that suggested that she might shatter if pushed any further.

            He sighed heavily, guilt clawing at his gut. "If you would," he said gently, "consider these past weeks. It's not so very much time, perhaps, but simply think on them. I have not always behaved as I ought with you - but I have endeavored to be better this time around. Surely you can see that much."

            But her blank stare revealed nothing, imparted not the briefest glimpse of her thoughts. She trudged silently out, as forlorn as he'd ever seen her, her bare feet making not so much as a whisper on the carpeted floors.

           


	31. Chapter 31

Her legs felt stiff and wooden; she tottered through the hallways like an automaton, still reeling. What in the name of the gods had he meant by all of that nonsense? She had felt that they had carved out a tenuous truce, and then he'd gone and blown it all to hell with that ridiculous claim. And she'd humiliated herself - again - with an unseemly display of emotion.

            Tears burned behind her eyes; she blinked them back. Gods, it had hurt - somehow he always seemed to know how best to strike at her, precisely where to place the knife, exactly how to twist it to inflict the most pain. He had wounded her in ways he couldn't even comprehend, in ways she hadn't even known she could still be wounded.

            _But you I_ do _care for_.

            What utter rubbish.

            With shaking fingers she twisted the doorknob,  pushed with too much force, stumbled into her room. Within, it was dark and quiet, a soothing balm to her tortured soul. She closed the door, leaned back against it, scrubbed her face with her hands, muffled the sob that choked her. Surrounded on all sides by sleeping staff - she couldn't make a sound. 

           She had been too often deceived to believe such a ludicrous lie; so he had to have some ulterior motive in mind. And still the memory of that kiss was seared into her lips - they felt bruised, as though they carried the imprint of his. Probably he wanted her in his bed again. She was living in his house for the time being; an easy mark. Or perhaps - perhaps he had merely made another wager over her.

            She closed her eyes, nauseated. Could he truly be so despicable as that?

            _Hands lined in tiny, white scars._

            She shoved that intrusive thought aside - he had asked her to think on the past weeks, to examine his actions as though she might divine intention from them. He had saved her life in the border town they'd visited, risked everything for her sake. He could have left her to the merciless pirate that had held her life in his hands, but instead he'd bargained for her, offered the _Strahl_ in exchange, and then rescued her when it became clear to him that the ruthless villain had no intention of releasing her. 

            He had sponged the blood from her face, spoken to her in soothing, hushed tones. Drawn her a bath, put her to bed like a child, stayed by her bedside until she'd fallen asleep.

            _No!_ He'd pitied her - poor little Penelo, frightened out of her wits, unable to care for herself.

            She drew a deep, shuddering breath. All she wanted was to be left to her own devices - was that really so much to ask? She had helped to liberate her country, had dutifully stepped out from beneath the spotlight, retreating to the shadows where she belonged, content to live out the remainder of her days in comfortable obscurity. Instead he had resurfaced to plague her again, casting her pathetic dreams into her face as if they were anything more than illusion.

            As if they were there for the taking, as if she had only to reach out, take just one more chance -

            No - she had gambled and lost too many times before. Dreams were for those who hadn't spent years shrouded in nightmares. Dreams were for the innocent, the blessed. Hers had all crumbled to ash long ago. She had swept away the last vestiges of hope as though they were cobwebs clinging to the corners of her battered heart. She didn't have dreams any longer - she had only disappointments, one after another, until she had finally taken to heart the lesson that fate had taught her over and over again.

            Better not to trust. Better not to _feel_.

            --

 

            She suffered his presence with all the enthusiasm of child forced to eat her vegetables. Which was not to say she showed her displeasure openly before the servants, but her manner couldn't be called anything better than frostily cordial. Instead she expressed her irritation with him in underhanded ways - two days after he'd begun following her around from dawn until dusk, haunting her steps like a shade, he retired to the family wing to discover that his once elegantly masculine room had been re-papered in pastel pink. Gone was the dark, understated bedspread; in its place, a frothy white lace monstrosity better suited to a debutante's boudoir. The heavy, earth-toned drapes had been replaced with fluttery silk curtains that had been embroidered with rosy-cheeked cherubs.

            _Cherubs_. In _his_ room. He'd nearly broken out in hives.

            He had retaliated, of course. He'd said nothing of the change to his room, had carefully masked his irritation. But when she had retired for the night, she had found that all of her things had been transferred from her room to one in the family wing - the room adjoining his. Through his door he had heard the muted assertions from the staff of " _master's orders_ " and Penelo's own livid - and exceptionally colorful - retorts. The slamming of the door had fairly rattled the walls. She hadn't any other option, so she had stayed. And then, from within her room, the unmistakable sound of a chair being dragged across the floor, the rattling of the doorknob - she'd wedged a chair beneath it to keep him out. He'd turned his face into his pillow to smother his laughter.

            From then, it had been all-out war. They smiled benignly over the breakfast table at one another and silently plotted out their petty revenges.

            He, at least, endeavored to be pleasant in public. She spoke only when spoken to, in stilted replies that set his teeth on edge with their blandness, their lack of any discernable interest. She provided as little information as possible, forcing him to carry a conversation did he wish to have one.

            Nearly a week had elapsed in this manner, and Penelo showed no signs of relaxing her stubborn guard. And every so often, when he got too close, when he pushed too far, he caught the briefest flicker of fear in her eyes before the shade lowered, before she erased all semblance of emotion. She was doing her damnedest to drive him away, to preemptively shut him out before he could hurt her.

            Of course he had brought her mistrust upon himself, but it didn't make it any easier to bear. He had hoped that his behavior these past few weeks might have made an impression upon her - but if it had, it was not to his credit. She lacked the ability to see anything but the threat of betrayal lurking in even the most innocent of actions.

            Her rigidity, the careful formality she clung to so tenaciously, was unshakeable. He would have welcomed even a return to the contrary hostility that had once burned so brightly in her - at least she would have felt something, and anything was better than her perfectly-collected facade. But none of his petty schemes had succeeded in knocking askew that implacable mask.

             But, as luck would have it, the thing that had finally forced some impression of life into her hadn't even been of his doing. Last evening, a messenger had arrived from the palace, bearing a set of gold-embossed invitations to a ball in celebration of Larsa's fifteenth birthday.

            _Invitations_ in only the most liberal sense of the word - Balthier's had been writ in the hand of Larsa himself, an _order_ to present himself and Penelo at the palace two days hence. Clearly, Ashe had had some hand in this. As the queen of a neighboring province and Larsa's mentor, she would be in attendance; likely she would wish to see how Penelo fared.

            Penelo had cast her invitation aside as if it didn't merit even the most minor consideration, but her face had been troubled. She had retired early that evening - but he had heard her within her room, pacing fretfully well into the night.

            The next morning she was well composed, if looking a trifle weary. Though she had had to skirt around him as she entered to take her place at the far end of the table, she had somehow managed to do it while giving the impression that she had not noticed him - as though he were merely furniture she dodged out of habit.

            She kept her gaze firmly affixed to her plate, ritualistically carving dainty bits of ham, popping tiny morsels into her mouth like clearing her plate were merely a task to soldier through. Every so often she set down her utensils to take a sip of tea. She had a rhythm - she did that when she was under stress, he had noticed, set routines to guide her through - five bites, one sip.

            He timed his announcement for her next sip. "I've called for a modiste to measure you for a gown. She ought to be arriving within the hour."

            She choked. Coughed delicately, eyes downcast, recovered herself enough to say, "That won't be necessary. I have no need for a gown."

            "Oh? What do you intend to wear to Larsa's ball, then?" He studied her face - a tightness about her jaw, as though she were gritting her teeth and trying desperately not to reveal her disquiet.

            "I won't be attending." Her fingers had clenched around her utensils, knuckles white with strain.

            "Oh, yes, you will."

            Her eyes jerked up, sending a sharp glare in his direction. "No, I will not - I have no desire to go."

            "Unfortunately, your _desire to attend_ is not particularly relevant. I have, more or less, been ordered to produce you. Doubtless so that her majesty can see for herself that you've not been mistreated at my hands." He rested his elbow upon the arm of the chair, set his chin in his palm and stared intently, searching her face for any hint of what it was that plagued her so. "Don't you wish to see her again? If only so you might commiserate with someone?"

            Her eyes dropped to her plate once again, but her shoulders drew back tight. "No," she said.

            A lie. She was an awful liar, really - truly dreadful. So she did wish to see Ashe, but she didn't want to attend the ball to do it.

            "A shame," he said. "But you'll have to suffer through it, I'm afraid. It's only a few hours."

            "I don't want to go!" Her voice rose, and in it there was a quavering note that sounded suspiciously like panic. She had heard it, too, and she drew a shaky breath, fell abruptly silent. Her utensils clattered uselessly to the table; her hands curled into fists as she dropped them to her lap.

            "Nevertheless," he said, "we _will_ be attending. I shall expect your cooperation when the modiste arrives." She didn't have to like it, but she was bound by societal convention and the will of their monarchs as much as he - otherwise he had no doubt that he'd be playing host to the pair of interfering busybodies _here_.

            Penelo bit off a harsh invective that had the serving maid lingering near her chair gasping with shock. With jerky, strained movements she threw down her napkin, shoved her chair back and stalked away, her fury fairly crackling the air around her.

            --

            "Sir, this is _highly_ irregular." The modiste flittered about the room, drawn up with indignation that Balthier had insisted upon being present for the fitting, having been somewhat certain that, without his presence, Penelo would have dismissed her.

            "She's not the one paying for your services," Balthier said, nodding his head to indicate Penelo, standing stiffly by the window of the sitting room. He'd had to send Entro to fetch her from her room - that, in itself, had been an ordeal.

            "But, sir - an unmarried lady is to be fitted. It's hardly proper."

             "We're engaged," he said, perhaps a bit sharply. Penelo muttered something beneath her breath that sounded like _not for long_ , which he chose not to dignify with a response. "For the gods' sake, you can do it over her clothes. I'm paying a premium for a rush order - should I have patronized someone else's shop instead?"

            This particular modiste, Shiria, was the current favorite with the ladies of Archadia. Her prices were exorbitant, but, apparently, her gowns were works of art. That he had managed to secure her services at all had been a feat - but that didn't mean that he was going to allow her to call the shots in his home.

            Shiria sniffed disdainfully, offended - but she let the matter drop, instead directing Penelo to stand fully within the light pouring through the window. The two shop girls she had brought with her waited in the wings, prepared to spring into action when ordered.

            For several long moments, Shiria merely considered Penelo, who fidgeted uncomfortably beneath the searching stare. At last Shiria clapped her hands and the shop girls, armed with measuring tapes and notepads, moved in for the kill, attacking with tapes as Penelo stood awkwardly, looking for all the world like she'd rather be literally anywhere other than where she was.

            As they worked, Shiria circled Penelo like coeurl on the prowl, her vaguely feline features arranged in studious contemplation; Balthier could sense Penelo's discomfort - she watched the woman as though she might be leapt upon at any moment, braced for an attack.

            Shiria's gaze lingered for a moment upon Penelo's worn boots. "Does she have slippers?" She directed her question to Balthier. "She simply _cannot_ wear those old things with a gown."

            " _She_ ," Penelo ground out irritably, "is perfectly capable of speaking for herself."

            "She'll need slippers as well," Balthier cut in. "I assume you can manage those?"

            A brief nod; Shiria directed the shop girls to trace an outline of Penelo's boots to take the size. She tapped a finger to her chin, murmuring, "Hmm." And then, as if struck with inspiration, her lips curled in a slow, satisfied smile.

            She made another half-circle around Penelo, stopping just behind her. Balthier saw Penelo's shoulders go rigid with tension. She tensed further as Shiria carefully untied the ribbon binding Penelo's hair up, setting it free to fall down her back, stroking her fingers through it to comb out the tangles.

            "You have such wonderful hair," Shiria said. "Such an interesting shade of blonde, almost ethereal. And your skin - most of the ladies I've made gowns for are pale creatures, so careful to stay out of the sun that they look sickly. But you - you've got that lovely tan, so striking with your hair. You're going to look exquisite, I promise you."

            A crimson flush crept into Penelo's cheeks. Had she been praised so seldom that even that small bit of flattery embarrassed her? Somehow it made Balthier almost angry - had _no one_ appreciated her, shown her the slightest bit of favor?

            Shiria snapped her attention back to Balthier. "I'm going to have to put off several orders in favor of this one. I daresay I'll have disappointed no fewer than three ladies - but this, I think, will be worth it."

            "You'll be well compensated," Balthier said.

            "Of that I have no doubt. I shall send it round with my bill by tomorrow evening." Shiria began to collect her things.

            Balthier's brows lifted. "We haven't discussed styles, colors -"

            She waved that away, uninterested. "No, sir, nor will we. I'll not overburden her with an abundance of frills and bows - she is going to be my masterwork."

            "I beg your pardon. If I'm paying for a gown, I should like some input -"

            "And what do you know of gowns, sir?" she asked tartly. "I find that those who know what they want often do _not_ know what they _need_. This merits a gown that complements its wearer, and I'll not produce anything else - I assure you I can do it, but I'll not do it for less than full creative control. I am, after all, the expert."

            That was not in dispute; her rates suggested that much on their own. Still, Balthier looked to Penelo. "Have you an opinion?"

            She said through clenched teeth, "I wasn't aware I was allowed to have. I've already said I don't want a gown."

            So. Not yet over her pique, then.

            "As you will, then," he said to Shiria. "No later than six, if you can - we're expected at the palace by eight."

            "You'll have it, even if I must work through the night. And you'll not be disappointed, sir." Though Shiria's face was composed, her eyes were alight with zeal; she was clearly already relishing the prospect of the creative frenzy she would no doubt fall into shortly. That much, at least, was promising.

            But Penelo - though _her_ face was carefully neutral, there was a tightness about her lips that suggested anxiety, worry. But over what, precisely, she was unwilling to disclose.

            --

            The gown had been delivered, as promised, just before six, along with the bill, which wanted an outrageous sum. But then, if Shiria lived up to her promises, it would be well worth it.

            Balthier was given to understand by a somewhat abashed Entro that there had been some difficulty in persuading Penelo to ready herself, but he had somehow talked her into it and a bevy of maids had been sent up to her room to assist her.

            Time was growing short; he had already donned his own evening wear. Now he had only to wait her out - and if he knew anything about women, it would likely be a while. But at last she appeared on the landing, stumbling into view as if she had been shoved - and likely she had, given her earlier recalcitrance - and Balthier found his breath sucked from his lungs.

            Fashioned from what must have been acres of fragile, almost translucent rose-colored chiffon, the skirt of the gown fluttered with every step she took, belling out like a flower coming into full bloom, each layer unfurling like individual petals. Her wild hair had been tamed into a sleek, silky chignon, with only a few tendrils allowed to escape to curl about her face. She looked delicate, elegant, exotic - she carried herself as regally as any queen; he had forgotten for a while that she had been born to this sort of thing, that she had been instructed in that perfect, effortless grace almost from the cradle.

            He rose automatically, as any gentleman would do for a lady - but she sailed past him without a glance, heading straight for the door, her lips compressed into a firm, determined line.

            Still put out with him, then. He sighed, tucked the invitations into the pocket of his coat, and followed her.

            His longer strides caught him up to her quickly. "You look lovely," he said, in a futile attempt to mollify her.

            For his efforts he received only a sharp glance, every bit of her ill humor showing in her face. "I only want to get this farce over with," she snapped icily.

            Awaiting them at the steps was the cab that Entro had summoned to take them to the palace. She slipped within, her back straight as a steel beam. From the tightness of her jaw he surmised that any attempt he might make at conversation would be utterly ignored, and so the ride was silent and mercifully short.

            He offered his hand to her to help her from the cab when they arrived at the palace steps, but it was swiftly knocked away as she clamored out on her own. They had been here once before, on these very steps, only this time they had the invitations they required to enter, and so they joined the queue, patiently awaiting their turn.

            The other ladies were clad in finery which, while clearly in the first stare of fashion, couldn't hope to outshine the elegant simplicity of Penelo's gown. But they dripped with jewels, while Penelo's neck and arms were bare - she ought to have her own jewels; at the very least he might've thought to search through his mother's vast stores of them to see if there were anything that might suit. Pearls, he thought - they would glow against her golden skin.

            At last he surrendered their invitations to the guard at the gate, who looked them over briefly and then allowed them to pass. Balthier imagined Penelo would have been stomping, if her slippers and fluttering skirts had permitted such a thing - but the silk slippers betrayed not so much as a whisper of a footstep, and the skirts swished gracefully, the fabric so light and airy that it practically floated.

            Together they entered the ballroom, staying toward the sidelines to enter the receiving line where they would greet their host. Penelo clasped her hands primly before her, eyes fixed firmly ahead toward the dais at the rear of the room, where Larsa held court surrounded by a throng of sycophantic admirers.

            The young Emperor had been waiting for their arrival, it seemed, for only minutes after they had arrived, a servant came to pluck them out of the line and fetch them to the front. There was some minor grumbling from those who had arrived earlier, of course, as their positioned had been usurped by latecomers - but those murmurs did not reach the ear of the Emperor.

            Larsa bounded down the steps of the dais, face alight with pleasure, Ashe trailing after him in a more sedate manner. Balthier guessed that she had been acting as hostess, as the only woman of similar rank available to fill that position.

            A bit of Penelo's frosty exterior thawed as Larsa, and then Ashe, embraced her warmly.

            "I was hoping you would show," Larsa said. "I'm going to be stuck in this line for another hour or so, but I hope you will save me a dance?"

            "Of course," she murmured. But she was still so stiff and tense - Balthier didn't imagine that words were anything more than an empty promise. What the devil was the matter with her?

            Ashe pulled Penelo gently aside, out of Larsa and Balthier's hearing, speaking to her quietly with a troubled expression. Left to his own devices while Larsa went back to greeting those who had been deemed worthy enough to merit invitations to his fête, Balthier shuffled off to the side, snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and strained to hear their conversation, which yielded him precisely nothing.

             Before too long, an interloper had intruded upon their conversation - an elderly gentleman who had to be seventy if he was a day. Clad in the trappings of obvious wealth, he made some sort of introduction, and held out his hand to Penelo, who hesitated briefly - but at last gave a nod to Ashe, and took the man's hand.

            So - she was going to dance after all.

            Ashe caught sight of Balthier lingering nearby. Still with that troubled face, she made a beckoning gesture to summon him over - normally he might have resisted such a summons, but he was eager to discover what sort of conversation the two women had been so engrossed in.

            She heaved a sigh as he approached. "Why did you have to bring her?" she asked. "I had rather hoped you wouldn't."

            He arched a brow, baffled. "I beg your pardon; we were all but commanded to appear. I had thought that you had seen to it."

            "I would never," she declared. "That was Larsa's doing alone; I advised him to leave off inviting her, but it seems he has overruled me." Another fractious sigh. "What a dreadful mess - and now she's dancing with Lord Fenton. He's a notorious lecher and an inveterate gambler; rumor has it he's seeking a wife wealthy enough to pay off his losses, and he's already gone through more wives than any one man ought."

            Balthier could not help but be a bit offended on Penelo's behalf. "Perhaps you had better explain," he said. "I was under the impression that you had some manner of friendship with her - why would you not wish her to come?"

            Ashe whirled on him with an incredulous expression. "Not _I_ ," she said. " _Her_. She hates this sort of affair. They always go poorly - no one's forgotten that her roots are common, but they _have_ been enticed by the size of her bank account. They're always either leering or laughing." She shook her head ruefully. "I stopped inviting her when I realized she was attending only out of obligation. I knew that she never seemed to enjoy herself, but...I didn't know how awful it had been for her until shortly before she left Rabanastre."

            Balthier's blood boiled with rage; he had to carefully relax his grip on the fragile champagne flute or risk cracking the stem. "She liberated her country - she saved all of Ivalice from the machinations of capricious gods."

            Ashe fixed him with a harsh look. "These people, none of them care about any of that. Many of them were her contemporaries when she was younger in Dalmasca. They remember only the cruelties they inflicted upon her in her youth, and they fall back into the same familiar patterns. And they're sly, secretive about it - they never do so in my hearing, but there are always whispers. Look, can you see?"

            Balthier searched the crowd, seeking out Penelo. At last his eyes lit upon her, near the middle of the ballroom floor. Her smile looked brittle, painted on - she moved stiffly, caught in the clutches of the elderly man holding her far too closely to be proper. His eyes moved on, scanning the faces of the couples dancing nearest her, saw what he might never have noticed had Ashe not pointed it out. The subtle nods towards her, the mouths twisted in sneers, the heads bent close to whisper to one another.

            Her only crime had been being wealthy but common - and _this_ was how she was treated?

            He heard himself, weeks ago, telling her that she didn't have to change, that she was fine as she was. And her desolated retort resounded in his head.

            _I'm not, and I never have been, and I never will be_.

Dear gods, she truly believed that. And he - he had thrown her to the wolves, cast her among them to be torn to shreds. And yet she held herself proudly, regally, steadfastly ignoring the mocking stares, the whispering pervading the crowd around her. She hadn't wanted to be here, had told him in so many words that she didn't wish to attend - but he had dragged her along anyway, and now she could do nothing but stoically endure this ordeal.

            The glass splintered in his hand.


	32. Chapter 32

Penelo did her best to ignore the snickering that washed all around her in swelling waves. The rush of blood in her ears and the harried beat of her pulse eventually drowned out the mocking laughter. Her palms were sweating; she needed to measure her breaths if she wished to appear calm and unaffected. It had not been her choice, she told herself - she would have stayed far away from this place if given the chance. Now she had only to endure, and ignore, and hope that the crass murmurs would stay just that.

            "How old are you, girl?" The elderly lord she danced with barked the question - he was half-deaf, his sharp voice startling her out of her flustered thoughts. She had thought he seemed kindly enough - it wasn't until they were on the ballroom floor that she had realized her mistake. Though his hand ought to have been properly at her waist, he had instead pawed at her backside with a familiarity that made her flush and stammer a protest.

            "Nineteen, sir," she said through gritted teeth.

            "' _My lord_ ,'" he corrected, with a snort of disdain. "Remember your place, girl."

            _Don't make a scene; it's Larsa's party. Don't shame Ashe._

"Nineteen, my lord," she said stiffly.

            He harrumphed. "Bit long in the tooth, aren't you?"

            This, from a man who was so wizened with age that he stooped as if the weight of his years hung upon his shoulders, his jowls so heavy with wrinkles that he resembled nothing so much as a sad-faced hound. He clung tenaciously to the tiny shock of white hair left to him, the rest of his pate as shiny as a china bowl.

            He continued, "Heard that your queen settled a veritable fortune upon you. Ten million, was it?"

            It was beyond uncouth to discuss money like this, but then he was an Archadian lord, and she was just that charity project of Ashe's. He'd not show her respect he didn't feel she was due. He was simply a product of his society, his position; supercilious and arrogant.

            "Yes, my lord," she said, and added, "For my assistance in restoring her to her throne."

            Another derisive sniff. "How much of it remains intact?"

            She felt herself stiffening yet further, sure she was merely moments away from cracking beneath the strain. "Seven million or so. I've given much to charity."

            His mouth firmed into a resolute line; an astonishing feat in and of itself, given the depth of the wrinkles that surrounded it. "That will have to end."

            "I beg your pardon, _sir_ ," she said tartly. "It is not any of your business how I spend my money."

            "Of course it is, you daft female - I'll not have my wife frittering away my funds." His lips drew into a scowl - clearly, with respect to the ease with which his wrinkles had settled, this was his natural expression.

            Fury raised its ugly head, rose to the front. She tamped it down, managed to grind out, "Sir, I am not in the market for a husband. You are wasting your time."

            "Don't be stupid; you'll do as you are told. I had expected ten million, but I suppose I could be persuaded to take you for seven." His rheumy eyes raked her callously. "I've debts that require paying, and surely her majesty will want you off her hands and settled. Given a firm hand you might even make an acceptable lady one day. To whom do I apply my suit?"

            "To _me_ ," she said tightly. "And it is refused."

            The man drew in an offended breath, puffed himself up. "You insolent chit -"

            Before the insult could be completed, a smooth voice interjected, with just a note of threat simmering beneath the otherwise mild tones. "You're wasting your breath, Fenton - the lady is spoken for."

            Balthier - she ought not to have felt so relieved, but under the circumstances he was most certainly the lesser of two evils. He held out his hand to her, an indication that he was cutting in, rescuing her from the bothersome lord.

            Rather than release her as was only proper, Lord Fenton's gnarled hands tightened possessively, biting into her hand, her waist. "Shove off, Bunansa - you've come into your father's fortune; you don't need hers."

            "No," Balthier acknowledged. "But she's mine just the same - longstanding betrothal and all that. I'm sure you know how it is; you've been married what - five, six times now? You've buried more wives than most. Someone really ought to look into that." The silky menace in his voice coerced the elderly man into releasing her. Balthier swept in, catching her up in his arms, whirled her away from her appalling suitor.

            She breathed a sigh of relief, but still that tension pulled her shoulders taut. The hand clasped in his was cold, stiff, clammy.

            " _Aping her betters,_ " came a scathing murmur from their left. " _Look at her, shameless!_ "

            Though that vivid flush came back into her cheeks, she protested when he tensed. "Don't," she whispered, prematurely stifling any harsh retort he might be inclined to make. "I'm used to it."

            But she wasn't - with every snide whisper she was reduced to the lonely child she had once been, craving acceptance and receiving only scorn and derision. She salvaged her pride by pretending that she had not been wounded by the spiteful comments, though surely she cringed inwardly.

            " _I heard she spent several months traveling unchaperoned with them - in a group of men! And our lord Larsa among them - can you imagine? No one would want her if she didn't have all that gil; she's beyond sullied._ "

" _Showing her face here - the nerve! Trying to sink her claws into the Emperor, no doubt. Did you see the way she threw herself at him? Brazen creature!_ "

_Larsa_ had thrown himself at _her_ ; she had merely accepted his fond embrace. And yet these harpies would paint her with a harlot's brush - little wonder she feared that her secret past as a dancer would come out. If this was what she was dealt merely for having the audacity to exist, what would be thrown into her face with _that_ scandal?

            Despite the humiliation that colored her cheeks, somehow she maintained that facade of levity, as if she endeavored to rise above the malice. She was grace personified, pretending she didn't hear the cutting words, allowing them to spew their venom without returning spite for spite.

            "You ought to give them hell," he said, aware of the cutting tenor of his voice, indignant and furious.

            Her eyes, which had been trained studiously over his left shoulder, dropped to the floor. "I won't shame Ashe that way. Nor ruin Larsa's party."

            "Who gives a damn about that -"

            "Balthier," she interrupted patiently. "I can't confront them for speaking the truth."

            And still her cheeks burned brightly. There was a startling glimmer in her eyes, as she fought off tears with each steady, rhythmic breath she took. She accepted the shame heaped upon her as her due, her selflessness tainted by their dripping scorn - she had preserved their way of life, had been prepared to sacrifice herself to save all of them, and they repaid her nobility with contempt.

            "It's not true," he said in a rough whisper. "None of it is true." His hand tightened upon hers, as if he could infuse it with the warmth of his. "You're worth a hundred of any of them - a thousand, even."

            A tiny flutter of self-deprecating laughter. "Dear gods, Balthier - you can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse. You can dress me up like a lady, but it won't make me into one." She blew out a heavy breath. "I would like to leave."

            "Don't run - set them on their ears. You deserve better than -"

            " _Please_." The word was a ragged whisper - and she so rarely asked anything of him. "I don't care for these parties, really. I don't want to cause a scene, I don't want to expose Ashe and Larsa to ridicule. I only want to go."

            He had subjected her to this; he had lead her into this den of wolves, and she had gone as one to the gallows, but with dignity and grace. Now she clung to the tatters of her pride, all but begging him to let her retire. What right had he to demand she stay? He had never experienced this sort of cutting behavior, had never been the butt of jokes, the subject of malicious gossip. His birth, if not his actions, made him respectable, even eligible - and then there was the piracy in his past. Though it was as far from a noble pursuit as could possibly be, they assigned to it only drama and romance - the prodigal son seeking his own fortune, at last returning to the country of his birth to take up his rightful place.

            While she was merely that upstart common girl, with only her funds and connections to two crowns to recommend her - and even those were only tenuous claims to respectability. They resented her for what they considered to be her presumption, her vulgar social-climbing.

            She had been here only twenty minutes on the outside, and already she had been savaged, cut to threads. Those that didn't malign her sought her out only to enhance their own consequence, angling after her fortune. And she bore it all, head held high despite the pain it caused her.

            "All right," he said at last. "We shall leave - give Ashe and Larsa your regrets. I will summon a cab."

            Carefully she extricated herself from the circle of his arms, wending her way back to the dais between the crush of couples. He watched her go, watched the wave of gossip follow her there, helpless to stem the tide of it.

            She caught up with him minutes later on the palace steps, having gathered fistfuls of her skirt into her hands, the better to make a hasty escape. He handed her into the cab, and she dutifully slid within, pulling at her voluminous skirts to permit him a place to sit. This cab was a bit more refined than the last, with a divider between the driver and the passengers to allow a bit of privacy. After Balthier had given the driver their direction, he slammed the divider closed and turned to Penelo.

            "If I had known, I wouldn't have brought you," he said quietly. She was so tense, her shoulders so stiff, her jaw so tight - he had no idea how she managed it, how she maintained that cool mask of indifference while inside she must be in such terrible turmoil.

            "It doesn't matter." The words were just the barest whisper; the cab set into motion, rolling steadily along the street. It wasn't until after they were out of sight of the palace that her shoulders finally slumped. She pressed her hands to her face, took a deep, shuddering breath. Her fingers brushed at her cheeks, swiping away the silent tears that trickled free despite her efforts to contain them.

            Something about her defensive posture - he knew that this was hardly the first time she'd left a ball in this manner, locking in her hurt until it was safe to at last let it free. How often had she cried so silently, desperate not to display her weakness to her tormentors?

             That this beautiful, bright, charming girl had been brought so low was more than he could bear. Though she mumbled a protest, he drew her onto his lap, sheltered her in the safety of his arms, banded them around her like steel bars, pressed her head to his shoulder.

            "Don't - don't -" She pushed weakly at his chest, unable to get the words out through a throat clogged with tears. He had held her like this once before and she had broken; probably she resented his interference. But she needed to be comforted, and this had all been of his doing.

            "Darling, you ought to have told me." He pressed the words into her hair, which was quickly becoming disheveled.

            "Why?" she choked out. "To give you a weapon?"

            He winced, sighed heavily, contracted his arms around her. "Perhaps I've given you cause to believe so," he said. "But I would never have subjected you to that had I known."

            "I told you - I _told_ you I didn't want to go." She was curling in on herself, as if she could make herself small enough to disappear entirely.

            "I know," he said. "And now I know why, and I am so sorry." Again his lips brushed the top of her head, his fingers stroked down her back soothingly. "But you cannot give their words any credence; they're the product of small minds. They know nothing of which they speak."

            But she only shook her head in denial. With a sigh, he plucked the pins from her hair, slid his fingers into the tumbled strands as they came down, massaged the tight muscles at the back of her neck. She looked so forlorn, with her head bowed, her hair shielding her face. Carefully he brushed it back, wiped away the hot tears that continued to fall. Her fingers knitted in her lap, her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

            "It's always like that," she whispered. "Every time. Every single time. I've never been good enough, and they've never missed a chance to make sure I know my place. I'll never -"

            " _No_." His hands came down on her shoulders, shook her once, firmly, shocking her into silence. "Don't you ever say that - don't even _think_ it." His arms crushed her, squeezing the breath out of her. She squeaked in surprise, even as he drew away, cupping his hands to her face to force her to meet his eyes.

            "You are the most beautiful, brave, impertinent, noble, stubborn woman I've ever met," he said fiercely, pressing a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of her temple. "I would be crushed if you let them take that from you."

            Absently, she wondered if he had any idea that half of the adjectives he'd chosen could not quite be described as flattering. And then she realized that she didn't care, because if had all been flattery she would never have believed it - but somehow she thought he might actually be _sincere_. Sincere enough to tell her the truth, because she _was_ impertinent and stubborn. But she'd never particularly felt beautiful or brave or noble - she had been too often reminded of the places she was lacking to find those things within herself, and after just a few disastrous occasions in her youth she had stopped looking for them.

            Not that any of that mattered; she was still the same outcast she'd always been. Though Ashe and Larsa would likely stand by her, she would only ever be a liability to them. Best to let them go their own paths, unscathed, separated from the disaster that was her life.

            Balthier stroked his thumb along her cheek, wondering where she had gone to in her mind. At first her eyes had been wide, stunned - and now they had darkened, staring sightlessly. Though her tears had ceased, the desolation on her face broke his heart.

            "Where have you gone, darling?" he murmured, drawing her attention once more.

            Slowly her hands lifted, touched his, curled around them and carefully pulled them away from her face. "I'm sorry," she said. "It was really very kind of you to say that. But it doesn't change anything."

            He made a rough sound in his throat, said, "I didn't say it to be kind, you vexatious wench." But her eyes slid away from his, her lips pursing in determination. He snapped, "What the devil do you mean, it doesn't _change_ anything?"

            A shrug, a half-hearted attempt at nonchalance. "Some people are just meant to be alone, Balthier."

            "Not you." He shook his hands free of hers, settled them on her shoulders. "Not you - you deserve better."

            "There's nowhere I belong." It wasn't a particularly bitter statement. Perhaps a little sad, a little resigned - but mostly determined, as though she'd discovered a universal truth that was indisputable, inexorable. "I didn't in Rabanastre, and I don't here. Neither with the nobility nor the commoners. There's no place for me. There never has been."

            "Don't be ridiculous; you're not alone - you've got friends. Powerful ones."

            "Yes - and I won't put them in the awkward position of weathering gossip for me. It's better for everyone if I just...fade away. Bow out gracefully before they can be hurt by association with me." That perfectly calm, even voice - reciting without feeling, locking away her emotions again.

            She was counting on a scandal that might never occur, removing herself from the spotlight just on the _possibility_ that questions might one day be raised, willing to keep her distance to protect everyone else, as she had always done.

            And he heard the words distantly, as if they had been torn from his lungs: "Then - stay with me. As long as you like. You don't _have_ to be alone - you can belong here, with me."

             Her mouth dropped open, brows arched over wide blue eyes. Whatever she had expected him to say, it certainly had not been that. And for a moment he would have sworn her resolve wavered - but at last she said, "No, I can't - I'll ruin you, too."

            "Dear gods - I've created myriad scandals of my own. Do you think I care for any of that?" he hissed.

            "Unfortunately, _I_ care," she said. "You have to know it would never work."

            "Of course I don't know that. And nor do you, for you haven't even considered -" But the cab was slowing, and he muttered an expletive beneath his breath. She extricated herself from his lap, then bent to carefully scrape discarded pins from the floor, winding the length of her hair and jamming in the pins to hold it in some manner of order.

            When the door of the cab opened at last, she was sitting placidly, her hands folded in her lap, looking so very prim and proper.

            "This isn't over," he said under his breath as he helped her out.

            "It is. It must be," she insisted, climbing the steps in a smooth swish of rose-hued skirts.

            " _No_ , damn it -" But Entro had opened the door, and she was sailing through it and past him with a brief nod of acknowledgment. Not running, per se, but certainly retreating - she gathered her skirts in her fists, starting up the stairs, and he could not chase after her without giving rise to yet more gossip. No matter - she was in the chamber next to his; he could raise this issue again later.

            "A very brief outing, sir," Entro said, a hint of reproach in his tone as he glanced at the clock. Little more than an hour had elapsed since they'd left.

            Balthier, feeling the sting of the butler's judgment, said, "They were...not kind. She wished to leave."

            A heavy sigh. "I had expected as much, sir. She has never been made much welcome at those sorts of events."

            "What am I supposed to do with her?" Balthier asked. "She thinks she's meant to be alone, that she must protect everyone from the consequences of associating with her."

           Entro closed the door, locked it. "Sir, you must understand that she has had a difficult time of it. Even as a child, she was alone; there were few that would receive her family, and those that did only did so out of obligation. I don't believe she wishes the isolation she's suffered to fall on anyone else through association with her. Her logic might be flawed, but her motives are pure."

            _If you are told a lie often enough, you start to believe it_.

            "If she had told me, I would never have made her go," Balthier said, half to himself, regret scratching deep and hard, scoring bloody gashes upon his heart.

            "In her place, sir, would you be willing to confess such a thing? Would you risk exposing yourself to further ridicule?"

            But he already knew that answer - of course not. Once bitten, twice shy - and he had humiliated her twice already. Why should she have trusted him with the care of this wound? Why should she _ever_ trust him?

            _Because he loved her_. He had told Ashe that he cared for her, but that wasn't the truth - not all of it, anyway. It was that she was the antithesis of practically every woman he'd ever known. She was so good, so sweet, in spite of all she had endured, so willing to sacrifice everything she held dear if it were in service of someone she cherished. That unyielding grace and courage she emanated, taking the bites although their venom burned in her veins, never showing her hurt in public, standing with her head held high as if challenging the entire world. She was his equal and his opposite all at once, the counterbalance to his cynicism, her sly cunning the match of his own.

            He was better with her than without; she made him want to find the decency he'd lost so many years ago. Without anything even approximating judgment or censure, she had made him want to be a worthier man than he'd been - because she deserved that of him. She deserved a man who would make her proud, a man who could keep her smiling that same helplessly delighted smile that he'd wrought from her only once before.

            He loved her because it was impossible not to, because without her he had been empty, simply going through the motions, days dragging endlessly until she had reappeared in his life and jump-started his heart once again. Because she was his missing piece, the part he hadn't even known that he lacked - he hadn't been looking for her but had found her nonetheless. It was fate or destiny or even the whims of fickle gods that had intertwined their lives before they'd met, pulling them inescapably together. And he had long since ceased to strain at the bonds.

            There was no other explanation for it, for the answering pain in him when she hurt, for the welling of emotion when she cried, for the way his arms ached to hold her close and comfort her, like an instinct impossible to ignore. He loved her for her sharp tongue, for her cutting wit, for her fiery temper - for her generous heart, for her subtle grace, for her adventurous spirit. For the strength she had cultivated, for the weaknesses she tried so hard to conceal. Fate, then - that their strengths and weaknesses were opposites, that he had cared too little and she had cared too much. They would strike their balance somewhere in the middle - he would teach her to laugh in the faces of those who scorned her, and she would teach him how to be better than he had been.

            But she believed fervently in a different fate, in one that would have her alone and lonely for the rest of her days, where her lot in life was only to suffer, to pine for things she thought she could never have. And she might even find a measure of peace in a solitary life, perhaps even contentment - freedom from stares, from jeers. More than she'd had before, but so much less than she _could_ have, if she could only find the courage to reach for more.

            And he knew, even if she did not, that she would never be truly _happy_ on her own.

            So he had to make her believe in something better. He had to make her want to stay.

            --

            The dress was lovely, but by far the best thing about it was that it came off easily. Years ago, in another life, she had worn dresses just as fine, but they had required the assistance of a maid to get into and out of - this one slipped right off of her shoulders with a gentle shove and a brief wiggle, and pooled at her feet like a wilting rose.

            Once she might've delighted in such a gown, but the luster was gone from that sort of thing, the gilt rubbed away to reveal only ugliness beneath. Everything had a price - the price of this gown had been ridicule.

            She supposed she ought to be ashamed of her humiliating display, but she only felt...empty. As if the taunts and sneers had finally succeeded in smothering the last of her spirit, extinguishing her completely.

            _I would be crushed if you let them take that from you_.

            No, no - that quiet acceptance that had settled over her had been the closest thing to peace she had felt in years. She ought to preserve it at all costs instead of dwelling on foolish statements like that...that bit of nonsense that Balthier had spouted.

            She turned to switch off the lamp, caught sight of herself in the gold-framed mirror on the wall, froze. As if under some unknown compulsion, her feet carried her across the lushly carpeted floor to stand before it. How long had it been since she could last look at herself in the mirror? Three years she hadn't even possessed one, and then thereafter - well, the damage had been done long before.

            Balthier had called her beautiful. She searched the mirror and tried to see it - the eyes were grave, serious, nose straight and dusted with the familiar smattering of freckles that her mother had always despaired of, the lips pleasant enough, but devoid of any evidence of gaiety, any propensity to smile. Pretty, in a bland, forgettable sort of way - but hardly beautiful. She tugged the pins loose from her hair, hoping that a less severe style would flatter her, but it made no particular difference. Still just passing fair.

            Disappointed, she switched off the lamp and climbed into bed, drawing the cool covers up and burying her face in the pillows with a sigh. She supposed she hadn't really been expecting beauty, but she might've hoped for it - just a bit.

            But that strange, spine-tingling sensation...she truly didn't believe that he had been lying. She had every reason to - but she didn't. He had no reason to lie to her, no reason to...to offer her a home. _His_ home.

            That ache, the desperate keening cry of loneliness, came surging back. The part of her that so badly wanted someone to love her - screaming to be heard past the blockades she'd erected to protect herself, protect everyone dear to her.

            He thought she was beautiful. She couldn't see it in herself, but _he_ did - and she wanted to know why, how. Because if he could answer that, maybe one day she might be able to see it, too. Maybe she could have something to cling to, some small fragment of contentment.

            And before she could think better of it, she slipped out of bed, silently stepped across the floor to the door adjoining his room, and removed the chair wedged beneath the doorknob.


	33. Chapter 33

            Though it was just after nine - far too early in the evening to consider sleep - Balthier found himself back in his own room, making preparations for bed. He had little doubt that Penelo was next door, doing the same; he couldn't imagine she wanted anything so much as to put an end to this awful day. Probably she was exhausted after the ordeal that had been Larsa's ball, wanted to put it behind her, have a bit of time to collect herself and refortify her defenses.

            And he couldn't bring himself to insist otherwise - he had insisted on too much as it was, had inflicted too much damage through carelessness. It galled him to leave her alone to weather her stormy emotions, but she deserved the consideration he had not shown her before. And he - well, he simply wanted to be close to her. If she needed separation, he would prefer a wall rather than a wing. There was always the chance, however inconsequential, that she might desire company or reassurance or...or someone to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. If there was even the slightest chance she might seek him out, he did not wish to make himself difficult to locate.

            So he muddled through his nightly ablutions as silently as possible to avoid disturbing her, his disordered mind scrambling through possibilities, fruitlessly searching for something that might draw her out of her melancholy, might bring a spark of spirit back into the eyes that had seemed so resigned and lifeless earlier.

            The doorknob rattled; he jerked around, stared at the door, waiting. That soft rattle again - and then the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor, growing fainter as it moved away from the door. She'd removed the chair - would she knock? Would she enter?

            He waited impatiently, the clock on the mantle taunting him with its incessant ticking, almost deafening in the silence of his room. But the knob did not turn, the door did not open - she was not going to seek him out.

            An invitation, then, perhaps - he was already striding to the door, fingers closing around the knob. But he hesitated before he turned it, conflicted.

            Not tonight. Her emotions were running high; she wasn't thinking clearly. She needed time to settle, and he needed her to _be_ settled, to be calm and collected enough to actually listen rather than rejecting him out of hand.

            He released the doorknob regretfully and backed away from the door before temptation could overcome his better sense. She hadn't come through the door herself, after all. She might not be _averse_ to a discussion, but she wasn't actively seeking one at this particular moment.

            Perhaps he ought to give her a day or two of respite, lest his unwelcome presence serve only to remind her of the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. He owed her that much and more. Waiting was nothing new to him, now - he had some weeks left, he could afford it. She only needed time. 

            --

            Penelo dragged herself out of bed the next morning when the cheerful chirping of birds outside her window could no longer be muffled with the pillow she'd yanked over her head. She'd not awoken in the best of moods, and her stomach churned with anxiety at the thought of a day once again spent exclusively in Balthier's company - at this hour, the house would be crawling with servants, and the last thing she wanted was to have her private matters paraded before them...and Balthier had never been particularly circumspect in that regard.

            But she was no sooner dressed and tying up her hair than a knock sounded at the door, and a maid entered shortly thereafter bearing a silver tray.

            "The master said you might prefer to take breakfast in your room," she said brightly. "He asked that I tell you that he will be otherwise occupied for most of the day and thought you might welcome the chance to get out of the house for a bit."

            "Out of the house?" Penelo repeated dumbly.

            "Oh! I'm sorry," the maid said. Swiftly she set the tray upon the end table near the bed, dug into the pockets of her apron, and produced a few folded sheets of paper, which she then proffered to Penelo. "A list," she said.

            "A _list_?" Penelo unfolded the paper - a list of tasks, really! She wasn't an _errand girl_ , she was - well, she supposed that for the next few weeks she _was_ an errand girl if that was what he required of her. The house was in its finishing stages, nothing left for her to do other than to sign off on it upon completion.

            The list contained a short note - a mild affirmation that her redecoration of his room in an appallingly feminine manner had not gone unnoticed, and a request that she pick out some furniture and linens that would be, as he so diplomatically put it, more to his taste. Specifically, new draperies, blankets and sheets, lamps, and night stands. No pink permitted, of course. Furthermore, she was to stay away from any hue of purple. His preference was for neutral shades, earth tones - and he expected his decor to reflect that.

            To bring about this end, he had left an additional note giving her permission to access his accounts at the bank, where she might withdraw the necessary funds to do so. She was, frankly, baffled that he would trust her with his finances, given that she was still piqued that he'd stolen her funds - even if he _did_ intend to return them eventually.

            Sometime during her perusal of the note, the maid had crept out of the room, leaving Penelo to eat her breakfast in peace.

             A bit of time out of the house _might_ do her some good, she acknowledged. At the very least, it would be a pleasant diversion, a task upon which her brain could focus - rather than stewing in the dregs of last evening's catastrophe. She might even enjoy it a bit - she'd never stayed overly long in Archadia, preferring instead the chaos of constant travel, pulling up roots before they could entrench themselves. As a result, she knew very little about the city; but while she was here she supposed she might as well explore.

            --

            She elected to walk rather than hiring a cab - she had no money of her own, anyway, though doubtless Balthier would have given her a bit if she had asked for it. But that would require seeking him out, and he was busy, or so he'd said. She didn't know whether or not she believed it; he'd done little of late that would give any indication of having anything to do which could possibly require his urgent attention.

            Dressed in her usual clothing, she attracted no more attention than any average citizen, and she found the anonymity pleasant and soothing. These cobblestone streets she had traversed once before, a year prior, when they'd come to Archades to confront Cid. Little had changed in the meantime, except that the denizens were more diverse this time around - the conclusion of the war had opened up previously closed trade routes, drawing in folk from all kingdoms and of all races.

            The bank would have to be her first stop, of course - it was located on the main thoroughfare, a stately brick building wedged between a courthouse and a library. It was still early in the morning, and the lobby contained only a few customers patiently waiting for an available clerk.

            At last it was her turn, and she held Balthier's authorization note in her hand as she approached the counter.

            The clerk had his head bowed over his records book, hastily scribbling notes while he asked, "Family name?"

            "Bunansa. Here -" Penelo held out the note, but the clerk was busy searching out the correct records, and so she waited.

            "Which one?" he inquired at last, as he flipped back and forth between two pages. "Ffamran or Penelo?"

            Her brows winged upwards, the hand that offered the note dropped to her side. "I beg your pardon?" she managed.

            "Ffamran or -" The clerk looked up at last, broke off abruptly, recognition flitting across his face. "Ahhh, Penelo, then - my apologies, miss, for not recognizing you at first."

            Well, she _had_ been somewhat famous during the last year, she supposed - it was hardly outside of the realm of possibility that even here the people would be familiar with her. But her accounts had all been under her true name - how had there come to be an account under Penelo _Bunansa_? Had they simply changed the name on the account when Balthier had emptied it? Was it merely a matter of protocol?

            Abashed by Penelo's unblinking stare, the clerk cleared his throat, checked his records once more as if they might offer further insight into her flummoxed demeanor, and said, hesitantly, "My congratulations on your marriage. How might I be of assistance?"

            She didn't bother to correct the clerk's misapprehension. A strange, creeping suspicion swept over her, the exhilaration of finding herself poised at the razor edge of a precipice, not knowing whether the next step would bring a lethal fall or a delirious flight. She swallowed heavily, said, "Yes; I'd like to check my balance."

            Obligingly, the clerk flipped to the correct page and slid the book across the desk to her. There, at the top of the page, _Penelo Bunansa_ written in the crisp, precise script of a bank employee. The balance, just beneath - just over seven million gil. Her knees threatened to buckle; her heart threatened to soar. She grasped the edge of the desk in one hand and slid smoothly into the chair beside her.

            Through a hazy film of bewildered tears, she scanned the page for date of creation - just a few days before she'd found her account emptied. He had to have opened a new account and funneled her funds into it immediately after he'd cleared out her original account. Her breath caught in her throat; he'd never intended to actually steal her money. As he'd claimed in his drunken stupor aboard the _Strahl_ that first day - he'd merely _relocated_ it. To get her attention. Because he had known it would send her running to Ashe, and, by extension, him.

            _Penelo Bunansa_.

            He must've known she would never have thought to look for another account - she'd determined him to be a complete cad from the start, because of their regrettable past. But he'd not taken a single gil from her accounts, had instead kept it safely hidden, entirely separate from his own.

            What was she to make of this? He had been entirely within his rights to confiscate it, and yet he had not. Instead he had bargained with her for the return of her money, all of the things he had taken from her - for what purpose? She didn't know what she was supposed to think, how she was supposed to feel.

            "Miss?" the clerk prompted.

            She jerked out of her reverie, blinked to clear herself of the lingering daze. "Yes," she said at last. "I'd like to make a withdrawal."

            --

            It was late when Balthier returned to his room, having spent the majority of the daylight hours banished from it by the workmen who had arrived to set it to rights. Oh, they had grumbled about fickle noblemen never knowing what they wanted, but they had done their work, removing the feminine trappings of the room to the attic to await placement elsewhere.

            But their efforts had paid off splendidly; his room was once again restored to its more masculine glory. It seemed that Penelo had indeed done as he had requested, and had entirely forgone the petty vengeances he might have expected from her.

            He wondered if she were in her room, if she had replaced that chair beneath the doorknob - if she might be on the other side of the door, listening to him moving around in his own room. But from her room there was only silence. 

            Rather than brood on speculations of her current mood, he fetched a packet of letters from where they had been tucked away in the back of his closet and settled into bed - no more scratchy lace coverlet, thank the gods. The letters were still bound by their plain brown string, which he carefully unknotted and set on the night stand, shuffling through the envelopes until he found where he'd left off.

            He'd been steadily going through them, two or three a night, not rushing through them but rather poring over them as if each word inked up the pages contained a bit of her spirit, as if he could reconstruct her past through them. Probably she would be horrified if she had any idea that he had her letters in his possession - but he was fond of the young girl who had written them, of the letters that had first been soft and awkward and utterly charming, and had, over time, grown furious and indignant and _still_ utterly charming.

            Probably he only had forty or fifty letters left, and he was already wondering how many more insults she would be able to work into them without repeating herself out of sheer necessity - logic dictated she _had_ to exhaust herself of them at some point.

            He was in the middle of the second letter when a soft sound caught his attention; a knock at the door. Not from the main door, but from the connecting one. His mind blanked instantly, focusing solely upon the door, waiting, just in case he had misheard.

            It came again, just a hesitant double-tap of her knuckles upon the wood. And he called out, "Enter."

            Slowly the doorknob turned, the door swung open, and Penelo slipped within, clad in a demure white nightgown he _knew_ she had not owned before today.

            He arched a brow, said, "It seems you've done rather a bit more shopping today than I had anticipated."

            Just the barest hint of pink stained her cheeks, as he had known it would. She ducked her head, sending her hair - brushed to sleek, shining softness - tumbling over her shoulders, glowing and haloed in the lamplight. But she clasped her hands before her, stepped resolutely closer, her bare toes peeking out from beneath the hem of the nightgown.

            She could have come through that door in her normal clothing. Instead she had purchased something soft and delicate and feminine. What the devil was she about? She had to know that invading his lair in such a thing was inviting danger. Or _did_ she know it - and chanced it anyway? Was this in fact some carefully crafted attempt at a seduction? Try as he might, he couldn't quite determine whether or not he was the hunter or the prey in this scenario. Though he supposed if _she_ were taking on the role of the huntress...he would be amenable to allowing himself to be caught.

            He cleared his throat, said, "Did you have something you wished to discuss?"

            "Yes, I - " But her eyes had drifted to the stack of letters on the nightstand, the parchment still clutched in his hand, the empty envelope on the bed, across which his name was written in elegant, flowing script. Damn - he'd forgotten all about them the instant she'd knocked on the door.

            Her hand lifted to cover her mouth; she made a choked sound, her color deepening, a hot tide of scarlet from her throat to the roots of her hair. "You read my letters?"

            "They _were_ addressed to me." He lifted the envelope, showed her the name scrawled across the front. "Or, at least, who I was."

            Another choked sound; her hands curled as if she only just restrained herself from snatching at them, reclaiming them.

            "They weren't...they weren't really for _you_ ," she said, in a somewhat defensive tone. "I would like them back."

            He gripped them protectively, unwilling to surrender them. "I think not; I haven't finished with them yet. I _should_ have got them years ago, but I had broken with Archadia before they were sent, and so Cid had them locked away in his office." Even that first time they had confronted Cid in his office, they had had no idea of what the drawers of Cid's desk had concealed.

            " _Please_ ," she said, and her face burned hotter. "They were just stupid letters, there's nothing of any import in them."

            "That doesn't matter; I'm rather fond of them. Take this one, for example." He glanced down at the letter in his hands. "I particularly like this one here, where you refer to me as a 'yellow-bellied scoundrel of the worst variety.' It's rather tame in comparison to some of your more, ah... _creative_ slurs. But I imagine you were running out of them by this point."

            She covered her face with her hands, groaned as if pained.

            "Did no one think to read your letters before you sent them?" he asked mildly. "I can't imagine your parents would have been well pleased with these." But he was grinning, as if _he_ were well pleased by them.

            "Not after the first few," she said at last, and lunged for the letter, which he dangled well out of reach.

            "I don't think so," he taunted. "I like these letters - they're endearing. You were a damned impertinent child." She'd gotten too close; with his free hand he reached out and stroked her hair. "Reading these now is really the least I can do - you thought I had ignored you deliberately."

            A miffed sigh. "That's really not necessary; I know now that you didn't."

            "You knew it in Balfonheim a year ago," he accused gently. "I had wondered why you laughed like that, as if you couldn't help it. I didn't tell you my name - but I told you enough that you knew it then."

            He had thought she might deny it, but she met his gaze evenly and said, "Yes, I knew it then."

            "Why did you not tell me?"

            She lifted her chin stubbornly. "What purpose would it have served? I thought we were all going to die - and in any case, there was no proof that I knew of. It was clear to me then that you didn't know, and if you didn't there was no reason I should trouble you with it."

            He could hardly argue with that. Besides, if she had told him then, he probably would not have believed her. After all, Cid had never seen fit to mention a betrothal to him.

            "Fair enough," he said. "But I've distracted you from your purpose - I assume you came for a reason?"

            She worried her lower lip between her even, white teeth, knitting her fingers before her. "Why did you do it?" she asked at last, in a small voice. "Why did you make that bet with Vaan?"

            He stilled, intensely aware of what it had cost her to make that inquiry, that whatever he said would remain in her mind forever afterwards - that the entirety of his future might hinge upon this moment.

            "Because I was an arrogant idiot," he said. "I'm still an arrogant idiot, I suppose, but perhaps not to the depth that once I was. When we made that bet, Vaan was confident of his success, and I was not - and I think that is what intrigued me." He sighed heavily. "I didn't expect to like you, to admire you. I swear to you, when I kissed you on the _Strahl_ that night, I had already forgotten about that wager. I didn't think of it again until Vaan was holding a pistol to my head, and I would not have collected upon it."

            "Why not?" she asked. "You stood to make a fortune." Still, a lingering trace of bitterness in her voice.

            He lifted the letter in his hand. "These letters - they weren't for me, not really. They were to someone you didn't know. That wager was the same; I didn't really know you then. And once I did, I could never have done it. Not for anything." He reached out, cupped her chin in his hand, stroked his thumb along the soft curve of her cheek, and she did not rebuff the gesture. "That's why I left you the _Strahl_ \- not for payment, sweet, but because Vaan and I were both so damned sorry to have hurt you."

            She was watching his face intently, studying his expression as though trying to divine from it whether or not he was telling the truth. He found himself holding his breath, awaiting her judgment.

            At last she said, "I went shopping today."

            He was somewhat disappointed, but allowed her the subject change; forcing her hand would likely only end poorly for him. "I guessed as much from the improved state of my room. And this," he said, fingering the lace-edged cuff of her nightgown.

            "You don't have to worry about the cost; I purchased it with my own money," she said.

            His brows lifted. "You haven't any money."

            "As it turns out, I do," she returned. "You sent me to the bank, Balthier. The clerk asked for the family name on the account, and I gave him yours, because you'd sent me to draw on your account. And do you know what I found? There were _two_. Ffamran...and Penelo. You didn't steal my money. Not really."

            "Of course I did - I cleared out your account."

            "But you didn't _keep_ it. I saw the dates; you moved it all into another account on the same day. Separate from yours. In _my_ name." Well, _almost_ her name, at least. She took a deep breath, forged ahead. "On the _Strahl_ , the night I had to stitch you up, you were so drunk I don't think you had any idea of what you were saying - but you said that you hadn't stolen my things, you'd just relocated them. You said you did it to get my attention. Well, you've succeeded - what did you want it for?"

            Somehow she had, in spite of all of his nefarious deeds, decided that there might not have been any malice in them. Or at least she was willing to consider the possibility - which was more than he had ever deserved from her, more than he had expected by far.

            He sighed. "After the fall of the _Bahamut_ , I decided to stay well away from you. I knew there was no circumstance in which you would ever welcome my presence again, and I didn't blame you for that - so I thought it would be better if you - if everyone - believed I was dead. But then _you_ sought _me_ out, and ferried me back to Archadia, whereupon Larsa saw fit to restore my father's fortune to me. And then, quite by serendipity, I discovered the betrothal contract."

            "And used it to force me to come with you."  That, clearly, she had not forgiven him for.

            "Yes - because you deserve better than I gave you before. And I thought if I could just convince you that what was between us had nothing to do with that wager, you might be relieved of at least that burden. It was never your shame to bear; it was mine. How could I not try?"

            Her lashes fluttered, lowered. "At the palace - you were really hateful to me."

            "I know," he said, leaned forward, brushed his lips over the downy softness of her cheek. "I'm sorry. But you had to believe I was serious, and for that I needed you to hate me. And I think you got a little of your own back." He touched his arm, where the wound she'd given him had healed over at last. "I still can't believe you actually shot me."

            "Your mistake." But her lips had curved into a hint of a smile. Maybe not a pardon, but perhaps a truce. But he had weeks left with her - there was time left to tell her all.

            He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, said, "You'd better go, darling."

            Her eyes opened, clear, inquisitive. "Why?"

            She couldn't be _that_ naive. "You're in my room, well after dark, in your nightclothes. It's hardly proper." For the gods' sake, he'd kissed her a week ago - she had to know what danger she courted by remaining with him.

            Again she nibbled on her lower lip, abusing the tender flesh. "What if...what if I don't want to go?"

            Dumbfounded, he stared at her mutely. She twisted her fingers before her nervously, head bowed, gaze focused upon the floor. And he knew that if he rejected her now - even with the best of intentions - she would never make this offer again. She had been hurt too many times already, had been treated poorly by him - it had probably taken the entirety of her courage to say such a thing.

            As if of its own accord, his hand manacled her wrist, startling her into lifting her eyes to his.

            "Be sure," he said. "Be _very_ sure."

            Eyes wide, unblinking, at last she nodded.

            And he tugged her close, slid his hand into her hair to bring her lips to his, and tumbled with him into the bed.


	34. Chapter 34

            Balthier awoke the moment Penelo extricated herself from the circle of his arms as she crept slowly towards the edge of the bed. He allowed her to nearly make it there before he caught her wrist in his fingers.

            "And where," he asked, in a sleep-roughened murmur, "do you think you are going?"

            She drew the sheets up with her free hand, mumbled hesitantly, like a child caught doing something naughty, "Back to my room."

            "Oh, no, I don't think so. I must strenuously object to being seduced and abandoned - you'll stay here." He levered himself up, caught her before she could extract her wrist from his hand, pulled her back down with him. The sheets flicked down over her face; she swatted at them to brush them away, frowned up at him even as he trapped her within the cage of his arms. Her hair was delightfully mussed, tangled over the pillows, the tender flesh of her throat pink where the stubble on his jaw had abraded it.

            "Balthier," she said in exasperation. "I have to go back - the maids usually start making their rounds in an hour or two. What will it look like if I'm discovered here?"

            "I don't care." He smoothed away the tangled mass of her hair, began kissing his way down the curve of her throat. "And neither should you."

            Her hands came up, fluttered ineffectually, torn between pushing him away and holding him closer - he captured them in his, linked their fingers, pinned them down on either side of her head.

            She gasped as he caught her earlobe between his teeth and gave it a teasing nip, struggled to snatch at the perfectly sound reasoning she had had only moments ago. In an unsteady voice, she said at last, "Of course I care! You _know_ how servants talk - do _you_ want to be the subject of gossip?"

            But he had settled his hips between her thighs, rocking against her in a way that made her lift her hips to meet him. "I don't care," he repeated, lifting his head long enough to favor her with a roguish grin, watching the worry fade from her eyes with the promise of pleasure. "And you won't either, when I'm done with you."

            Two hours later, Penelo was settled comfortably against his chest, her head tucked against his shoulder, her warm breath feathering across his throat. Perhaps he'd not entirely vanquished her propensity to concern herself with things she ought not give any credence to, but she _had_ fallen into an exhausted slumber at last, any thought of returning to her own room banished from her mind.

            Still, in deference to her delicate sensibilities, he drew the covers up around her, shielding her from view when the door creaked open to admit a maid who stoked the fire before she went on her way. He'd have her carefree and laughing in the face of gossip yet - but it would come with time, not with thrusting her into the thick of it. All that would currently be assumed was that she had risen early.

            Not the best of solutions, perhaps - but she had stayed. And she would stay again, if he had anything to say about it.

            --

            When next Penelo awoke, it was to bright sunshine pouring through the window and a plate of food thrust beneath her nose, wafting the delicious scent of perfectly-crisp bacon and pan-roasted potatoes. The sharp, fresh scent of mingled pepper, garlic, and rosemary had had her nose crinkling, eyes popping open, perplexed.

            Balthier sat beside her, fully-dressed, with a plate in one hand and a mug in the other. And she was still in his bed, naked, nightgown abandoned somewhere on the floor.

            "Oh!" She crumpled the covers in her hands, sitting up abruptly with a gasp.

            "No one saw you," he said reassuringly. "I made sure you were covered when the maid came in." He offered her the plate. "Breakfast?"

            "Tea first." She held out her hands for the mug, which he surrendered immediately. Absently she wondered at the fact that he'd brought her tea instead of the coffee he preferred. Somehow he had remembered her own preference and brought her tea, prepared exactly as she took it - no sugar, a splash of milk. A quick glance at the breakfast plate showed her that it did not include eggs, of which she had never been particularly fond.

            He took in that shrewd, assessing look, and shrugged. "We've shared a breakfast table for nigh on two weeks now - I'd have been remiss not to note your preferences."

            "Bribing them out of Entro, more likely," she muttered sulkily, aware that he had manipulated her into staying longer than she'd intended. Even more maddeningly aware that she had allowed it.

            "Darling, I hardly have to _bribe_ him - you're one of his favorite subjects. He'd extol your virtues all day through if he only could." He removed the mug from her hands, set the plate on her lap. "He wants to see you settled, you know."

            Blankly she stared at him, fingers curled around her utensils, a bit of potato halfway to her mouth. "I _am_ settled."

            He snorted. "Bounty-hunting is hardly _settled_."

            "It's respectable enough." Her jaw had tightened, her lips pursing into a flat line. "I'm happy." But the words came out flat; she had spoken them as if reciting a line she had practiced in front of a mirror. As if she had had to convince herself of it.

            "He wants to see you married."

            "Oh." She glanced down, grimaced as if her food had suddenly grown unappetizing. "That sort of thing...it's not for me."

            Mystified, he watched her pop a chunk of potato into her mouth, chew ten times, swallow, repeat the process. Down to routines again, establishing a rhythm to concentrate on so that she could mask her discomfort.

            "Why not?" he asked, when she was between bites.

            "I don't want it." An automatic response, so bland that he couldn't determine whether it was the truth or just one more thing that she had convinced herself that she could do well enough without. "It was never for me, it was just what was decided would be for me when I was a child. It's not necessary anymore."

            "It doesn't have to be _necessary_ ," he chided. "Perhaps you simply meet someone and...fall in love." Perhaps, given enough time, _he_ would be that someone.

            But she was shaking her head, a wry expression on her face. "I'll never trust anyone enough for _that_ ," she said, with a bitter flutter of laughter. "Besides, until you've signed that dissolution contract, I'm not free to marry anyway."

            He bit back an irritated retort, feeling oddly used - she'd come to his bed and she _still_ wanted their betrothal dissolved? Did she want nothing from him but what pleasure he could give her in bed? And he caught himself; because that had been his intention once - to work her out of his system. He'd done it many times with many women, but Penelo was the only one he'd not managed to shake, the one who had slipped into his bloodstream like a drug, keeping him intoxicated, desiring ever more.

            And now it seemed that the tables had turned, and it was not pleasant to be on the other side - so he would have to get her addicted to him. Until she _did_ trust him enough to take an honest chance on him.

            At last she set away the plate, reached down to scoop up her nightgown from where it had fallen in a heap on the floor, righting it to pull it on over her head. 

            "I have to go," she said, throwing back the covers to climb to her feet. "Someone'll surely come looking for me eventually." She paused on her trek towards the adjoining door, turned to say, "Thank you for breakfast."

            "Wait a moment," he said, and she halted in her tracks. He crossed the room slowly, as if she might grow frightened and flee. He'd made a critical error already, assumed her presence in his bedroom meant more than it had to her. Perhaps he wanted to rail against the unfairness of it, but she'd not appreciate it - and he would come out the loser. Instead, he would have to keep her coming back until she no longer wished to leave.

             He stopped before her; she clasped her hands in front of her as if awaiting his instructions. He reached out, stroked her cheek, lifted her chin.

            Eyes gone wide, she whispered, "Balthier -"

            He caught the weak protest in his mouth; her hands came up to clasp his - ostensibly to pull them away - but she gave up the fight when he used his free arm to pull her close to his chest. Instead her hands settled on his shoulders, light as butterflies, and she lifted herself onto her toes to meet him.

            "Come back tonight," he whispered against her lips, gratified to see that her eyes had gone dazed, heavy lidded. "And I'll feed you dessert."

            --

            He could have stuck close to her side all day as he had done recently, overwhelmed her with his presence, commanded her attention - but he rather thought it wouldn't have won him anything. It was generally one step forward, two steps back with her, and if he pressed too much, it would be _ten_ steps back, and he'd have to set about luring her back in with a vengeance. There simply wasn't time for it; better to bait the trap and let her walk into it of her own accord.

            Instead he left her to her own devices, confident that she would come to him when the household had retired for the night, and she wouldn't fear being caught in his room past a decent hour.

            But she didn't. There was no knock, no scratching at the door, and the raspberry tart he'd called up for her - he _had_ promised her dessert - sat untouched on its china plate upon his nightstand.

             At last it became clear that she would not be coming. He ruthlessly shoved aside an upwelling of aggravation, reminded himself that she had made him no promises. But if she would not come to him, _he_ would go to _her_. So he snatched up the plate, approached the door, and twisted the knob.

            She hadn't locked it, at least, or replaced the door beneath the handle. The door slid open soundlessly, dark within her room but for the light from his spilling through the doorway, cutting across the floor, falling over a slice of the bed - and within it, Penelo, asleep, tossing and turning restlessly in her solitary bed.

            He advanced slowly, silently setting the plate down upon her nightstand, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. Even in sleep her expression was fractious; she shifted as though she could not find a comfortable position, making irritated sounds in her throat, her fingers occasionally plucking at the cuffs or neckline of her nightgown.

            Ah - so _that_ was what drove her agitation; she had become accustomed to going without one, was no longer comfortable sleeping in them. Why had she bothered to buy it, then, if she didn't care to wear it? Of course, he could always ask her - just as well as inquire as to why she had decided _not_ to come tonight.

            He framed her face with his hands, pressed his lips to her forehead, and beneath him she went rigid with a gasp as she woke from her restive slumber.

            "Oh," she murmured weakly, "It's only you."

            _Only him_ , indeed. "Were you expecting someone else?"

            "I wasn't expecting _anyone_ ," she muttered. "What are you _doing_ here?"

            He lifted the plate for her inspection in the dim lighting. "You've missed our dessert appointment. I took the liberty of bringing it to you instead."

            She fisted her hands in the covers, and at last said, in a low voice, "I decided it wasn't a very good idea."

            "Whyever not?" he asked lightly, scooping a bit of the tart onto a spoon.

            "Really, Balthier, we can't just -" But he'd taken advantage of her open mouth to slip the spoon inside. Glaring at him, she chewed and swallowed - but he didn't miss the brief flicker of enjoyment that crossed her face.

            "I said I would feed you dessert. I must confess I didn't expect it to be quite in this manner, but I suppose if I am to be a man of my word..." He shrugged, scooped up another bit of tart with the spoon.

            "How else would you feed me dessert?" she asked, puzzled. But even in the darkness she saw his teeth gleam as he leered at her like a hungry coeurl. It set off a skitter of alarm, an instinctual urge to run from a predator - she might have tried to flee, but he was sitting on the hem of her nightgown where it was buried beneath the blankets. She was trapped, like a bird in a cage.

            Not that she was afraid of _him_ \- but she supposed she had a healthy dose of fear for what he could make her feel, what he _had_ made her feel last night. Which was the reason she had not sought him out. It had been wonderful - but she would do better not to grow accustomed to things that were not for her. And she could so easily get used to sleeping beside him, his chest pressed against her back, his arms gathering her tightly against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. If she weren't careful, she could grow addicted to that feeling of safety, of security. She could become comfortable with the steady beat of his heart, the even cadence of his breath. And then she would miss it when she left, would endure long, restless nights in her own cold, lonely bed.

            It was the reason she had never stayed in one place too long - if she never cared, it wouldn't hurt to leave. And yet she was terrified that the roots she'd so assiduously avoided had tangled her up anyway, anchoring her to this place, this man. Already she feared that they would score her heart when she inevitably had to pull them loose.

            Casually he reached over to the nightstand, plucked a plump raspberry from its bed of whipped cream atop the tart, popped it into his mouth. And he smiled wickedly as he slid his fingers into her hair, cupped her head, and pressed his lips to hers. Her fingers clenched on the sheets; he teased apart her lips, rolled the raspberry onto her tongue. Its juice burst tart and sweet; she shuddered as he drew away slightly, just enough for her to breathe and swallow.

            "Good?" he whispered, his lips brushing high on her cheek.

            She nodded mutely, her breath hitching in her throat, all thoughts of protest, of self-preservation, fleeing into the night. Somehow he knocked her off-kilter so easily, and then she was weak and quiescent and she hadn't the will to deny him, and she was sure he knew it. But in the small hours of the night, it was just the two of them, as if the entirety of the world had narrowed to just this room, just this bed, just his hands in her hair and his lips hovering right before hers. She leaned in, and he took the invitation before it could be rescinded, and his hands slid from her hair down her back, slipping beneath the covers. He broke away only long enough to whisk her nightgown over her head, and then he was pressing her down into the sheets.

            The raspberry tart sat on the nightstand, mostly untouched, and soon forgotten entirely.

            --

            Hours later, Balthier awoke to Penelo shaking his shoulder urgently. She had switched on a bedside lamp and was once again clad in her white nightgown, looking at once exhausted and piqued.

            Once she'd succeeded in rousing him, she planted her dainty fists on her hips and said, "You've got to go back to your room!"

            He waved that away, reaching for her to drag her back into bed, but she dodged his searching hands. "I'm the master of the house," he grumbled irritably. "I don't _have_ to do _anything_."

            "You can't stay here!"

            "I beg to differ." He rolled onto his back, crossed his arms beneath his head. "Come back to bed, pet."

            She grimaced, wringing her fingers before her. "Balthier, _please_ be reasonable."

            He glanced past her to the clock on the wall - it had hardly gone past four. "There's still three hours left before the maids make their rounds. No reason to panic _now_." He patted the bed beside him. "I'll make you a deal - you come back to bed, and I'll make sure I'm gone before the maids show up."

            She hesitated, as though uncertain whether or not to believe him - but at last she decided to err on the side of believing his promise and scrambled back onto the bed. It didn't stop her from giving an aggravated little huff, though, at which he coughed to disguise a chuckle.

            She turned her back on him, scooting to the edge of the bed and curling up in that way that made his chest hurt. She hadn't slept like that earlier, nor the night before - but then she had been draped half over top of him, snuggled securely against his side.

            Gently he cupped her shoulder, easing her to her back, leaning over her braced upon his forearm. "Why the nightgown?" he asked at last. "When I entered, you were restless, scratching and pulling at it. You're not comfortable in it."

            She gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Some of the maids wondered why I never left nightgowns for them to launder. And there's always the chance that I'll kick off the covers in the night, and they'll see that I don't wear them when they come in to light the fire - it's really not proper."

            "Lock the door, then," he suggested.

            She shook her head. "No; they'll speculate on it if I do, and what they'll conjure up will likely be worse than the truth." She made a face. "Actually, it probably _will_ be the truth - that _you're_ in here."

            "Devil take their speculation," he said viciously. "You're not beholden to them; you owe none of them any explanations. You oughtn't be forced to sacrifice your comfort for their delicate sensibilities." He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, the apple of her cheek. "You care too much, darling."

            " _You_ don't care _enough_ ," she accused, flopping back around to her side with an aggrieved sigh.

            "Probably not," he agreed, settling in behind her, slipping an arm beneath her pillow and the other over her waist to draw her close. "But it's far more satisfying to flout convention than to follow it." He buried his face in her hair, the cool strands like silk.

            "I'll take your word for it," she said on a yawn. But she didn't protest the clasp of his fingers along her side, the slide of his legs against hers, and neither did she draw her legs up to her chest. Instead she pressed her back against his chest, sighed, and closed her eyes. Uncomfortable nightgown or no, she took comfort from him - within moments she had fallen asleep.

            --

            Their nights continued in the same manner for almost two weeks. Sometimes she came to his room, and sometimes he to hers, but they were always careful never to be caught - Penelo more so than Balthier.

            She had grown bolder, given time and encouragement. What she had lacked in experience she made up for in enthusiasm, and he thought she might be beginning to trust him, just a bit - maybe not enough to stay yet, but enough that she could fall asleep next to him at night without the fear that he would be careless enough to let them be discovered together by the servants.

            But he was no closer to winning her affections. And he knew it; could feel time slipping away from him like sand in an hourglass, helpless to stop the inevitable moment when she would leave, when he would have no hold on her any longer. He knew he was growing impatient, trying desperately to foster a relationship between them that she seemed determined to elude. She craved contact, affection - but she didn't trust in any of it enough to risk herself on something lasting. So she took what physical affection he offered, and seemed to believe that it could lead nowhere, that she could escape heart-whole, undamaged, totally unaware that _he_ would be damaged when she left.

            He felt his misspent youth had somehow caught up with him, that his sins were being repaid by the terrible irony that the one woman he wanted did not want him - at least not _forever_. It made him irritable, snappish, and sly.

            And then, one night when there remained only two weeks before she would leave him, he thought he had found his excuse at last.

            She was just settling in to sleep, tucking her head beneath his chin, when he brushed her hair aside, relishing the way it clung to his fingers, and said in a thoughtful tone, "You could be pregnant."

            But she only snickered lightly, and said on a sigh, "That's not a concern."

            Baffled, he said, "I assure you, what we've been doing does occasionally result in children - or so I am given to understand."

            "Balthier," she said patiently, "I worked in a club for several years. A lot of the girls there had patrons, and children are ruinous to that sort of career - I learned from them how to prevent that condition." Her cheek was pressed against his chest, her legs tangled with his.

            Of course she would prevent them - she would allow herself no such entanglements. And he supposed he ought to be properly horrified by the prospect of children. But instead he was only disappointed, overwhelmed with a sinking, fatalistic despondence. She would never relax her guard enough to love him, would never be convinced to stay. She might have forgiven him for his deception a year ago, but she would never forget it, would never be brought to truly trust him.

            He had ruined her before he had ever had her. He had created his own nightmare, destroyed his happiness and hers. A bleak future stretched out before him, unavoidable.

            He shoved himself out of the bed, ignoring her gasp of surprise as he thrust his legs into his pants, jerking them up over his hips. Sitting bolt upright, she stared at him as if he'd gone mad. And perhaps he had a bit, raking his fingers through his hair, full of fury and indignation...and sorrow and despair.

            "What's gotten into you?" she asked, clutching the sheets to her chest, anxious and wary of his sudden shift in mood.

            "You," he said accusingly, spearing her with a glance. " _You've_ gotten into me - and you're just going to leave me behind without so much as a backward glance." Like he had done to countless women himself. Fitting.

            She swallowed hard, her eyes wide, baffled. "This was temporary," she said. "We both knew it."

            _He_ hadn't known it. Or at least, he hadn't accepted it; he had been so sure of himself, so certain that he could bring her around. That he could seduce her into loving him - and instead she had seduced him, brought him to his knees.

            He had to look like a madman, with his hair sticking out in every direction, as disordered as hers, half-dressed, raving like a lunatic. He heaved a sigh, checked his emotions, plunked himself down at the edge of the bed. "Why must it be temporary?" he asked heavily.

            And she froze over, as she always did when someone ventured too close. Her shoulders went rigid, her eyes dropped to the coverlet. "It has to be," she whispered.  

            "It doesn't," he said, reaching for her hands, carefully detaching them from where they clenched the sheets. They were ice-cold, limp, clammy; he chafed them in his, willing some warmth back into them. "Darling, stay with me." And he breathed the fatal words into her cold hands as he pressed them to his lips. "I love you."

            She snatched her hands back with a frantic jerk and scrambled away, eyes wide and horrified. "You don't," she choked. "You can't - you _can't_."

            Every last spark of hope died an instant death, guttered immediately by the dismayed expression on her face. "I assure you, I can," he said bitterly. "For all the good it does me."

            "It's...it's ridiculous," she gasped. "I would ruin you. You'd be an outcast just as I am. You _can't..._ " But she couldn't even bring herself to say the words, as if acknowledging them aloud would make them real and irrefutable.

            He'd never cared for any of that; but she did, too much. She would never consign someone else to share her unenviable fate - not even for the love she so desperately wanted. He pressed his hands to his eyes, heaved a sigh. It was all over. He'd gambled and lost.

            When he spoke next, his words were as even and clear as he could manage. "I'm going out for a while. I'd prefer it if you were gone before I return." He rose, headed towards the closet in search of a shirt.

            He heard her scramble off the bed and she appeared at the closet door moments later, clad in her nightgown once again. "But there's two weeks left," she said fretfully.

            He passed her by, unable even to look at her. "I release you from them," he responded tightly. "I shall have the dissolution papers signed and delivered to you in Rabanastre, where you may file them at your leisure. Your ship will be delivered to the Aerodrome here to await your convenience. Make it soon."

            Without a backward glance, he strode from his room, leaving her behind just as he had been certain she would do to him. Only he had got around to it first, leaving before he could be left. It was self-preservation; he _had_ to.

            Because he couldn't stay, helpless to do anything but to watch her go.


	35. Chapter 35

                Penelo stayed for three more days, drifting about the house in a fog, trying desperately to make sense of what had happened with Balthier the night he had left. If any of the servants noticed her preoccupation or her tendency to walk the corridors at night as if searching for their missing master, they tactfully said nothing, keeping their curiosity entirely to themselves.

            No one seemed to know where he had gone, and it soon became painfully obvious to her that as long as she remained at the house, he would not be returning. The _Strahl_ was gone from the Aerodrome, and the _Stargazer_ had been delivered in its place, as he had said it would. But she didn't want to leave - she had nowhere to go, after all, no commitments or demands on her time. And this place had begun to feel somewhat like _home_ to her, which was worrisome indeed.

            She suspected it wasn't the house itself, really - it was Balthier. Even more worrisome.

            When at last a note arrived from Ashe, written in an uncharacteristically hesitant tone, inquiring as to what she ought to do with the dissolution contract that had arrived in Rabanastre, Penelo's heart sank. She had to leave - she had been all but thrown off the place, after all. She had officially overstayed her welcome; Balthier was done with her.

            And so, with all the enthusiasm of one condemned to the gallows, she packed her things at last, bid a regretful farewell to Entro, and took herself off to the Aerodrome. She wasn't needed here any longer. She wasn't _wanted_ here.

            But the prospect of flying off for parts unknown didn't seem as promising as once it had, and the silence that had once been so peaceful and welcome instead was heavy and oppressive. She had grown accustomed, she thought, to Balthier's sly banter, to his sardonic laughter, even to his gentle mockery.

            She had grown accustomed to pillowing her head on his chest, to her legs entangling with his, to his hands sifting soothingly through her hair in the night.

            _Hands lined in tiny, white scars, a permanent reminder of wounds borne for her sake, in her stead. Because he had wanted to protect her, to keep her safe._

            No! Useless, to think of things like that - what purpose would it serve? It was impossible. It had been impossible from the first. He had a promising life in Archadia, a home, freedom to do as he pleased. She was only a liability. She would never be accepted here - nor anywhere. Her past followed her around like a shadow; she would never escape it, could never allow it to touch anyone she cared for. It wouldn't be right, wouldn't be fair. How could she repay their kindness with the cutting cruelty that would inevitably rain down upon them? She was meant to be alone after all; she'd grown accustomed to it this past year.

            _Not you - you deserve better._

            She heard the echo of the words as though they had been spoken aloud, but the _Stargazer's_ small deck was empty except for herself.

            He had never cared what anyone had said. He had accused her of caring too much, of setting too much stock in the opinions of people she didn't even like. He had known the entirety of her past, had pursued her anyway - didn't that count for something? Would he eventually grow to resent her for the doors that would be forever closed to him on her account?

            Desolation settled over her like a mantle; for the first time she acknowledged to herself that she didn't _want_ to be alone...but she knew also that she didn't have it in her to take any further risks. One more failed attempt would destroy her. She had long ago learned the dire consequences of thumbing her nose at fate. Her old mantra resounded in her head - better not to try, for fate will punish you again and again for presuming beyond your lot in life. Better not to reach for things destined forever to remain elusive.

            And a prickle of shock shivered down her spine - he had known that, had known her weaknesses better than she had, had known that reaching for what she wanted was a monumental feat, one she couldn't bring herself to attempt. He had been endeavoring to piece her back together into someone stronger, the person she should have become had she not buckled beneath the weight of everyone else's expectations. But with so little time, what could he have accomplished?

            _When you can honestly tell me what it is you want, I will see that you get it._

            He had known all along what she wanted. He had known she wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- tell him, anyone. So instead he'd handed it to her, pressing those sweet and terrible words with a kiss into her hands. _He_ had shouldered the risk; all she had had to do was close her fingers around that impossible gift, accept it.

            Instead she had choked out a frantic denial and thrown it back into his face.

            Dear gods...what had she _done_?

            --

            In the end, there had been nothing for it but to return to Rabanastre and seek Ashe's counsel. She arrived shortly after noon, and the guards at the entryway admitted her at once, giving her Ashe's direction - the throne room, where she had last seen the queen more than a month ago.

            The massive doors were closed, the sound of muffled voices emanating from within. Clearly, Ashe was in some sort of meeting - but she didn't care. She needed Ashe's help _now_.

            Without a second thought, she flung the doors open, revealing a scene from her nightmares. There was the crack of myriad fans opening, the fervent fluttering of them sounding for all the world like someone had released a flock of birds into the palace. At least thirty ladies were gathered within, all in their elaborate gowns, staring haughtily down their exceptionally long noses at her.

            "Well, _really_ ," she thought she heard one of them mutter vindictively.

            Ashe was there, her hand pressed to her chest in surprise. "Penelo," she said, in a tone of mild confusion. "Please, do come in. I had no idea you'd returned."

            "Just got back," she said, striving not to flush beneath the intense scrutiny of so many antagonizing glares. "Ashe, I need to talk with you. Do you have a moment?"

            "You ought to have made an appointment," a lady in a shimmering ruby gown snapped at Penelo. "Her majesty hasn't time -"

            " _You_ don't speak for me, Margena," Ashe interrupted coolly, leveling a fierce stare at the outspoken lady. When the woman dropped her eyes and dipped into a brief curtsey, Ashe returned her attention to Penelo. "Of course I have time for you," she said. "Shall I call for tea?"

            Tea, in this room buzzing with so many ladies who would stab her in the back as soon as look at her. Penelo waited for the familiar freezing dread to creep over her, but instead she was surprised by a flicker of anger.

            She _could_ ask Ashe to retire to somewhere more private - doubtless these pretentious harpies would try to intrude on any private conversation, eager to gather more tidbits of gossip to spread around. But she had been running for so long, and she had wearied of it, wearied of tolerating their vicious slurs and jibes. To protect herself from them she had packed away all of her emotions, stacked them up in her mind, in her heart - she hadn't bothered to look beneath the ones on the surface, the hurt, the pain. They had been her constant companions for so long that she was familiar with them, almost comfortable with them. But when she brushed them aside, there was more - indignation, fury, rage; all the things she'd bottled up over the years because they had never been appropriate. Well, now they were at last - she was done with being the victim.

            "Penelo?" Ashe prompted.

            "Yes. Tea. That would be wonderful." She looked about the room - the furniture had been rearranged but for Ashe's throne upon the dais, tables and chairs scattered about for the ladies' use. But in the far corner, there was a little sofa upon which they might sit in a tiny bit of seclusion. "Over there?" she asked, nodding to indicate it.

            "Of course. I shall join you in a moment - I'll summon a servant to bring the tea." Ashe crossed to the door, and Penelo waded through the crowd of disapproving ladies towards the sofa in the corner.

            She was nearly there when came a cattily hissed, " _Filthy, presumptuous commoner_ ," from just behind her.

            Of course they would feel safe unleashing their venom with Ashe halfway across the room. And Penelo had certainly never tattled, never retaliated - until now. She had had it with their malice. She had done _nothing_ to them - she had helped liberate Dalmasca from beneath the rule of the Empire, had preserved their way of life, as vapid and vacuous as it was. She deserved _none_ of their condescension.

            As if her body had reacted on its own, she had bent at the waist, and in a smooth, quick motion slipped a small dagger from where it was sheathed in her boot, whirled on the instigator, and pressed the point flush against the tip of the surprised lady's nose. The poisonous green eyes went comically cross-eyed as she stared at the weapon.

            "I remember you," Penelo said thoughtfully, surprising even herself. She had spent so long keeping her head down, she hadn't bothered to look up and face her tormentors. "From when we were children. Lorencia, isn't it? You always pulled your skirts away from me like they'd get contaminated if I got too near. Said I smelled of the shops."

            Lorencia swallowed audibly, backed a quick step away from the point of the dagger, squealing in alarm when Penelo followed. Her heavy skirts hindered her movement; Penelo's more practical garments gave her the advantage.

            "You must be, what, twenty-two now? Twenty-three? You've gone to fat," Penelo said, nodding to indicate her plump waist, the surplus chins she sported. "And I see you still haven't seen the last of those dreadful spots." She made a regretful sound in her throat. "Ugly on the inside, ugly on the outside." Perhaps she ought not have repaid unkindness with unkindness, but the wildness that surged in her veins felt exhilarating. For the very first time she was not the broken, frightened girl she had been. Their words could only cut if she let them.

            Lorencia's face flushed a mottled red, bright splotchy patches of color. "You can't - you can't speak to me like that," she hissed. "You're nothing - no one. Just a pet project the queen has taken pity on. She'll be furious with you for -"

            " _What_ will I be furious over, Lorencia?" Ashe interrupted frostily as she returned, causing Lorencia and the other ladies watching to squawk like startled geese. "You'd best not be causing trouble - your husband is sick unto death of your behavior. He'll cut you off without a cent if I send you from court, for he certainly doesn't want you beleaguering _him_. And I _am_ tempted."

            Bristling with fear and indignation, Lorencia jabbed a finger in Penelo's direction. "That grubby little commoner brandished a sword at me! She tried to kill me; she's not fit for civilized society!"

            Ashe sighed, pressed her hands to her face. "Penelo, I am certain we established that weapons were not to be drawn within the throne room upon your last visit, no matter the provocation - they've still not repaired the hole in the wall from last time." This elicited a chorus of shocked gasps from the ladies present, at which Penelo discovered a curious upwelling of satisfaction. Let them think her a savage; it would blunt the sharp edges of their spiteful tongues.  
  
            To Lorencia, Ashe said drily, "It's hardly a sword - and if she had tried to kill you, you would be dead. At the moment, I cannot imagine how she managed to restrain herself."

            "Your Majesty!" Lorencia whined in protest. "Surely you cannot continue to inflict this dreadful creature upon polite society!"

            Penelo affected a bored tone. "You don't have to like me, Lorencia, for I don't care for you either. But I will not tolerate disrespect from you - _any_ of you - any longer. I don't want your friendship, but you _will_ endeavor for politeness; it is the very least I am owed. So let this be your warning: the next one of you that decides to spew your venom in my hearing will lose her tongue." She casually flipped the dagger in her hand, rather enjoying the way the color leached from several faces - the ones most inclined to be vicious, no doubt. "Any takers?"

            Aghast, Lorencia took a frantic step backwards, tripping on the hem of her gown and almost tumbling to the floor. "Your Majesty!" she gasped again, appalled.

            Irritated, Ashe snapped, "What, Lorencia - you don't care for your victims fighting back? Do you think me stupid, that I've heard nothing of the malice you and your ilk have been casting? I never liked you - in fact, the vast majority of you are here only at my mercy. You and your families fled or made your bow to the Empire, only to come crawling back when I reclaimed my throne." She flung her hand towards the door, gesturing furiously. "Get out, all of you - there's only a handful of you worth anything."

            Stunned silence met Ashe's order, a sea of colorful skirts not so much as twitching in the wake of the tirade. " _Out!_ " Ashe snapped again, and mayhem erupted as the ladies scampered for the door as fast as their weighty gowns would let them.

            As the doors slammed closed, leaving only the two of them left in the room, Ashe sighed heavily. "Well," she said, "I suppose that could have gone better."

            "It could have gone worse," Penelo responded. "I might have _actually_ had to cut out somebody's tongue." A flutter of laughter rose in her throat; she swallowed it down. Better that she keep that rush of elation to herself.

            "Probably Lorencia's," Ashe acknowledged. "She's always been a witless busybody; thinks she's some sort of authority on what's proper. You won't _really_ cut out her tongue, will you?"

            Penelo considered that for a moment. "No - I think probably the threat is as good as the deed." But she felt lighter than she had in years, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Those ladies would never _like_ her - but she didn't like _them_ , so it hardly mattered. They were just silly, gossipy hens, too vain and stupid to understand the thin ice they tread.

            Of course, after Ashe's outburst, they would likely understand a bit better their precarious position. Penelo might have been born common, but she had proved her loyalty to the queen - and Ashe would defend her to the end. She didn't know why she had ever doubted it, why she had not confided in Ashe before now. It had seemed so essential to never trouble anyone else with problems she considered only hers to bear, to carry the weight of them alone. But Ashe had leapt to her defense so swiftly, as if she'd been waiting forever for the opportunity. She had been wrong before, so wrong.

            "There are a few that I think you would like," Ashe said softly. "And I think they would like you as well. They're not _all_ bad."

            But Penelo wrinkled her nose. "Honestly, I think I'm put off proper ladies for good."

            Ashe smothered a laugh with one hand. "I was...really very proud of you," she said at last. "For standing up for yourself. I've never understood why you could do it for everyone _but_ yourself."

            Because she'd been drifting aimlessly through life, never interacting if she could help it, for fear of suffering all the same rejections she'd suffered before. It had taken her this long to find anything in herself worth defending. It had taken Balthier seeing something worthy in her, doing his best to show it to her, for her to be able to look for it. He had been infuriating most of the time, insufferable the rest - but he had tried to understand her, to help her out of the depression she'd sunken into.

            He had asked her to stay with him. He had said he loved her. And she thought it must be the truth - as impossible as it had seemed.

            As if her legs could no longer support her, she collapsed onto the sofa, wilting back to rest the back of her head upon the wall, covering her face with her hands.

            "Oh, Ashe," she murmured. "I think I've made a terrible mistake."

            --

            Balthier hadn't been back to Archadia in weeks, instead spending the majority of his time sullenly flying along the coasts of Ivalice, only stopping in towns when his supplies were in dire need of replenishment. It was only constant travel that kept him from dwelling upon the ruins of his relationship with Penelo. If it could even have been called that - he'd had to blackmail her into staying, after all. And she'd have her dissolution by now; there was nothing further left between them.

            Except a mountain of regrets - mostly his, of course - and a valley of resentment - mostly hers.

            The house might've gone all to hell in his absence, but he suspected Entro would keep it running as smoothly as he'd promised. He had access to the household accounts; it would be years before even the incredible amount of servants - and the wages they commanded - would manage to deplete them.

            Then again, it might be years before he mustered up the nerve to return to Archades to break the news to Entro that his beloved former mistress would not be returning. Balthier had grown rather appallingly fond of the impertinent butler. Disappointing him would be uncomfortably like disappointing a respected parent - or so he supposed; his own father had been so abominably unsuited to the title that Balthier had liked nothing better than disappointing him.

            So he'd run, as he always had. Better that than to stew in the wreck he'd made of his life, of Penelo's. She might've had a chance at happiness, but for him. Instead he had left her only with bitterness, sorrow. His atonement had been too little, too late to repair the damage he'd done.

            All he could do was let her go, let her recover from the distress he'd inflicted upon her in her own time, in her own way. He'd tried to coax her out of her dejection and that had backfired miserably - he didn't think he would ever forget the abject horror - no, _terror_ \- upon her face at his confession. She had been aghast; hardly the sort of reaction he might have hoped for.

            He scrubbed his face with his hands, blinked furiously to banish the image swimming before his eyes. Clearly, his attempts not to dwell upon her were futile - alone as he was, there was only too much time to think, to consider the innumerable ways in which he had failed her, where he had gone wrong, how he might've rectified his mistakes.

            So many mistakes.

            Blast it. One night - he needed just one night of blissful forgetfulness. To drink himself into oblivion and spend one night in which her tortured face didn't haunt his dreams. He'd find a tavern, purchase a bottle of whatever rotgut whiskey they served, and drown his sorrows until he couldn't think, much less feel, and for just one night perhaps the oppressive weight of the guilt he was burdened with would lessen just a bit. Just enough to _almost_ be bearable.

            And then he would pick himself up and work out a way to go on without her.

            Luckily for him, he was quickly approaching Balfonheim - the port city had continued to thrive, having been left in Rista's care after Reddas' demise. She had done an admirable job, it seemed, in honoring Reddas' legacy with her continuing patronage, and the population had swelled, a haven to all of the misfits from other lands, a melting pot of cultures.

            The descent into the city was mercifully brief, the Aerodrome packed with ships - a curious number of which seemed in the process of leaving the city. Balfonheim had always seemed to be a place where time held little meaning, where the people seemed to be at best, relaxed, and at worst, almost lazy - thus the hurry he witnessed upon disembarking was baffling.

            A couple of men scurried past him on their way to their ships, talking excitedly.

            "You going?" the one said to the other.

            "'Course I am. Got my ticket last week. Cost me a fair bit of gil - reckon it'll be worth it," his companion replied.

            "First show in ages. Thought she'd just up and vanished!" the first man said.

            A queer feeling settled in the pit of Balthier's stomach, not entirely unlike nausea. He glanced down; a slip of paper had fluttered over the toe of his boot, the parchment crinkled. That sense of foreboding - he'd had it before. He bent down to retrieve the paper, his stomach pitching and rolling.

            It was an advertisement for a show - in a flourishing script, the page proclaimed:

_One night only: The Butterfly - Unmasked!_

_Royal City of Rabanastre, Dalmasca - tickets start at 10,000 gil._

            Balthier crushed the parchment in his hand, his blood simmering in his veins. What the devil was she trying to accomplish? She'd be ruined - she'd hated dancing for strangers, she didn't need the money. He only hoped this was not some misguided attempt to forcibly remove herself from society, to preemptively destroy her own reputation before her past could be uncovered by anyone else.

            Damned if he were going to let what might well be hundreds of leering men ogle her like that - she had never fully understood the magnitude of her draw. She was setting herself up for far more than she had bargained for; she would never shake her legions of admirers. At the very least, she deserved a lecture - how in the world had Ashe not heard and put a stop to Penelo's nonsense?

            His plans for a night spent seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle entirely forgotten, he turned on his heel and headed straight back to the _Strahl_.

            --

            "What if it doesn't work?" Penelo asked fretfully.

            "It will."

            "But if it _doesn't_?" Her voice rose almost to a wail, shrill and tinny.

            "I tell you, it _will_." Ashe drew her cloak down over her face. "We've sent those advertisements to every city on the map - and some that aren't. He'll _have_ to have seen it."

            Penelo's voice lowered to a whisper. "But what if he doesn't _come_?"

            "He _will_." Ashe sighed; she dropped into a chair, having abandoned a good deal of her queenly dignity simply upon entering this den of iniquity. "He must. I'm sure he will."

            Penelo was not. Her heart pounded in her chest - this was all a terrible risk. But what other option had she had? It had taken her months to track him down when she'd turned him in for that bounty. She couldn't waste that sort of time again. But he had not returned to his home in Archades - Entro hadn't received so much as a single note from him in weeks.

            When Ashe had first suggested this scheme, Penelo had been horrified - she no longer cared what anyone said of her, but she had thought surely Ashe would be ashamed to be knowingly associated with anyone involved in such a tawdry act. But Ashe had only laughed and assured Penelo that anyone who dared speak against her would find themselves summarily banished.  

            So she had resigned herself to this daring plan, hoping against hope that it would lure Balthier out - but still she found herself a mess of nerves, terrified that it would be for naught, terrified that it _would_ work and wondering what she would say to him if he happened to turn up.

            But the time was drawing near, the minutes fraught with tension, winding down until the moment of truth. "You have to go," she said to Ashe. "You can't be seen here, you know."

            Ashe hesitated, but Penelo's face was resolute - she didn't want Ashe lurking backstage to witness her success or her failure. At last she said, "All right - but if anything should go poorly...send a message to the palace and I will return for you at once."

            "I will - now go. Go!" Penelo shooed Ashe away through the rear exit, where she slipped out into the streets unnoticed by the masses. Then she leaned back against the wall, took several deep, steadying breaths.

            Mustering up all the courage she could from some hidden place inside her, she let fall the heavy cloak that concealed her, and at last stepped out onto the stage, shielded only by the curtain.

            --

             The house lights dimmed; the curtain rose. She had danced on this stage many times before, but the stage lights had never seemed quite so bright, nor the audience so respectfully quiet.

            The blinding glow of the stage lights washed out all view of the silent audience, brighter than they had ever been - it was as she had always wanted it, only herself, alone, as if nothing else existed.

            Except tonight she had wanted something more.

            The soft trill of the music began, filling the silence, lingering sweetly in the still air. She took her first steps, began the routine that she knew by heart. The first time she had ever danced for someone in particular, and she could not even scan the crowd to see if her message would be received, if he were even in attendance to see it.

            The music swelled, crested, her dance drew to a close, the song ended at last, and her heart pounded furiously in her chest.

            This time there was no deafening applause - no whistles, no cheers, no raucous stomping of feet. The lights dimmed slowly, and at last her eyes acclimated to witness a perplexing sight. There _was_ no audience - probably there never had been - except for one lone man, stretched out in the only chair, his boots resting upon the table before him.

            She stared, incredulous, silent, frozen in place, in time.

            At last he growled, "You cost me a bloody fortune."

            What words were there to counter those? She had lost them all.

            His boots hit the floor; he lifted himself from the chair, rising to his feet, his hand outstretched towards her.

            As if pulled by invisible strings, her feet carried her to the edge of the stage, that barrier that she had never before breached, had never even thought to breach - the last line of defense between herself and her adoring admirers. Her heart gave a stutter in her chest; Balthier had never looked _less_ adoring.

            No mask to disguise her, this time; she felt naked, vulnerable in a way that had nothing at all to do with her lack of attire. And still her toes curled over the edge of the stage; she alighted from it gracefully, the firmness of the wooden planks she had left replaced by the plush carpeting beneath her feet.

            His eyes were fixed firmly upon her face, reading her expression. She wondered what he saw; she could not seem to stay true to any one particular emotion. Joy, trepidation, anxiety, surprise, exhilaration - they were all there, vying for dominance.

            "How did you -" But the words escaped her; she didn't know how to express the thoughts swirling in her mind. Sheepishly, she gestured to the empty room.  

            "I asked the owner how much he expected to make from tonight's performance. Then I offered him double to cancel it." He was irritated; she could hear it in his voice. Trepidation won out over joy; anxiety over exhilaration. Her fingers curled, nails digging crescents into her palms.

            He continued, "What possessed you to pull a foolish stunt like this?"

            She swallowed heavily. "I had to get your attention somehow." He had laid claim to those words, once. She tried for a smile, couldn't quite manage it. His expression was guarded, in complete reserve. Her palms began to grow clammy, fear spiking, heart plummeting to her toes - if only there had been the minutest bit of welcome in his face, the tiniest sliver of encouragement. But he might as well have been carved from granite.

             "You have it," he grated crossly. He made a rough sound in his throat; her progress across the floor towards him had slowed to a halt. Impatiently he took a step towards her, and she danced backwards in response.

            "You're angry," she whispered.

            "Good of you to notice." A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes glittered, his shoulders were set stubbornly, taut and tense. "Come here, Penelo."

            Trepidation skyrocketed, her breath faltered, caught in her throat. There was nothing in his face that suggested any sort of reassurance, any measure of comfort. Slowly she shook her head, her pulse pounding in her ears, shame and grief warring within her.

            It had not been a request, and he was in no mood to accommodate her contrariness. He lunged for her - choking down a sob, she whirled to flee half a second too late. His fingers closed around her wrist in an iron grip, unshakeable.

            "No," she gasped. "This was a mistake -"

            He talked over her, inexorably pulling her closer. "You're damned right it was a mistake," he snapped fiercely. "And I will turn you over my knee if you make it again." His arm was a steel band over her shoulder blades, holding her against him. The hand that had manacled her wrist released it in order to tunnel into her hair, pressing her head to his chest. His arms contracted, squeezing her so tightly she thought the breath might be forced from her lungs. His right hand stroked the curve of her hip, traced a leisurely path down her bare back. Anxiety slipped away, lulled into tranquility by the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.

            He was still angry, his voice harsh and demanding at her ear, "What do you want, Penelo?" But she thought she heard a thread of deeper meaning in his tone - it was the same question he'd asked her once before. He wanted her to tell him what she had been unable to before, to acknowledge to him, to herself, what she wanted out of life.

            She closed her eyes against the bewildered tears that threatened, turning her face into his shirtfront, breathing in his clean, heady scent. Like a drug, it coursed through her veins, softening her, chasing away the anguish that had caught her in its clutches. Her fingers curled into the starched white linen of his shirt, and for a moment she simply basked in his familiar heat, the rise and fall of his chest, the way her head fit perfectly beneath his chin. And finally she whispered, "You. I only want you."

            For a heart-stopping moment he was utterly still and silent. But at last he said in a grating voice, "Someone's got to keep you out of trouble. I suppose it might as well be me." In contrast, his fingers were so gentle, sliding softly over her skin, teasing the tension from her muscles.

            She choked on a flutter of nervous laughter, relief welling up like a spring inside her. Maybe she hadn't ruined everything after all - she had only to take that last leap of faith, just as he had weeks ago. She drew back the scant inches he would allow, rose onto her toes to brush her lips over his, imagined that his stern expression had mellowed just a bit, and murmured, "I love you."

            And she smiled as he returned the careful graze, the tender gesture completely incongruous to the rough voice that whispered back, "It's about damned time."


	36. Chapter 36

_Royal City of Archades, Archadia  
            Two years later_

Vaan stretched out his feet, propping them upon the low table before him, echoing Balthier's indolent pose. They'd have earned a fierce scolding for it from Penelo were she about, but she had taken herself off to the gardens a half an hour earlier, and so they were at least momentarily safe from censure. Balthier twitched back the curtains, peering out the window - he could see the top of her bright head bobbing along the path through the roses.

            "You said you were going to marry her two years ago," Vaan said. "So why haven't you?"

            Balthier heaved a long-suffering sigh. He'd caught hell from practically everyone over the lack of forthcoming nuptials at some point or another. They had all assumed - _wrongly_ \- that _he_ had been the one delaying them.

            " _I_ would," he responded testily. " _She_ will not."

            Vaan's brows lifted, and he coughed to disguise a snort. "Really? You've asked her?"

            "More often than I'd care to admit." It was a bit of a sore subject; he'd endured weeks of Entro's stony disapproval before he'd cracked and unbent enough to admit that Penelo had refused him - well, not _refused_ him, precisely. She'd said _not yet_. Whatever the hell _that_ was supposed to mean. But she'd been saying it nigh on two years now.

            At least Entro had taken his righteous condemnation and placed it firmly where it belonged - upon Penelo's shoulders. Though they maintained the illusion of separate bedrooms, it could hardly have failed to escape his notice - as overseer of the house - that occasionally they forgot to rumple her sheets to make them look slept in, or that the maids had taken to knocking loudly as they entered Balthier's room to provide enough warning for Penelo to hide herself beneath the covers.  

            Still, Penelo bore Entro's chiding with good humor - she laughed and said she'd wed when she was good and ready and not before. But it didn't stop Entro from haranguing her about it at least twice a day.

            In the past two years she had bloomed like one of the flowers she tended so carefully. Like she'd spent most of her life furled up against the bitterly cold winter that had been her life - only to at last be coaxed into blossom by the new spring sun.

            It had happened slowly, of course. She'd been pretending confidence for ages, but she'd had no idea how to actually acquire it. But gradually she had accepted that his love was not conditional, that although they might occasionally bicker and argue like a pair of overgrown children, his love for her was never in danger of being revoked, that he would always come to her defense. With a foundation firmly rooted in his affection, she had rebuilt her damaged self-esteem. She might have needed his reassurance at first, his protection while she took those first tiny steps, ventures that might've threatened to topple her over had he not been there to catch her - but she was stronger now than she had ever been.

            She had even made friends with a few of the ladies in both courts - Rabanastre and Archades alike. Most of them were still only cordial to her, which she didn't particularly mind, but there were a few who, like her, were on the fringes of acceptance, having come into the nobility through marriage. They were considered shabby by the old guard, but Penelo thought them far less stuffy and insufferable than the other ladies.

            Vaan, too, had been permitted back into her life - and to Balthier's consternation, the obnoxious whelp didn't seem to show any inclination to leave it, even though he talked incessantly of getting back to pirating. He'd been trying to lure Penelo away into it as well, wheedling her about going on adventures whenever Balthier happened to turn his back.

            But Penelo was happy here. And though she was pleased to no longer be on the outs with Vaan, she enjoyed her life as it was. Besides, if she ever craved a spot of adventure, it was with Balthier she'd go sailing - as they had, several times already. On occasion they had even gone bounty hunting, though they had, at Balthier's insistence, stuck to the less dangerous marks. She had had enough close calls in her lifetime, and though she might have the devil's own luck, Balthier had no inclination to test its limitations.

            But no matter how far afield they traveled, always they returned here, to the house that had once been a symbol of his hated father and that she had turned into a home alive with color and gaiety. The sun was brighter here, the wind softer, the hours longer as if time itself desired to stretch into forever for them. The unpleasant memories that had haunted this place had been exorcised by the sound of her laughter - and she laughed often now, smiled freely. She had had to learn it all over again, but once she had started he'd never given her reason to stop.

            Her former occupation had stayed in the past. But even if it were to come out somehow, he didn't think it would matter. Not to him, surely, and in the past two years he had taught her to laugh in the face of disapproval, to cast off censure and walk her own path - their path. So he didn't expect it would matter to her, either. Now she danced only for him, her adoring audience of one. Her golden mask, no longer a source of shame and bitterness to her, had been framed and mounted on the wall in his bedroom. In the early hours of morning, when hit with the sun's first light, it sparkled incandescent, so brightly that the tip-tilted edges seemed to beat and shimmer just like the wings of a butterfly.

            A pebble clinked against the windowpane near his ear, startling him out of his thoughts. Another followed shortly thereafter; he and Vaan both jerked at the sound. At last he shoved aside the curtain, pushed the pane upwards, and stuck his head out.

            Penelo stood, two floors below, with her hands on her hips. "You'd better not have your boots on the table again!" she shouted up at them.

            "I purchased this table, you mouthy termagant - I can put my boots on it if I please!" he called back. But there were twin thumps, as both he and Vaan dropped their feet to the floor. She had ways of enacting revenge - twice in the past two years he'd irked her enough that she'd had his room redecorated in pinks and purples and lace. He had never discovered where she stashed those things when she inevitably gave in and changed it all back, but he had a feeling she kept it all on hand for the next time she felt he deserved a bit of punishment.

            She pegged him with a pebble, dead center of his forehead. He'd forgotten how alarmingly accurate her aim was.

            "That's it - you're in for it now," he growled, rubbing the sting away. She took off running, wise girl.

            "I can't believe you let her boss you around like that," Vaan said, scoffing.

            Balthier cast him an arch look, replied calmly, "Boy, when you've matured enough you'll understand that one of the greatest pleasures in life is having a woman who cares enough to give you hell when you deserve it. Now, if you'll excuse me...something requires my urgent attention."

            ---

            He caught up with her near the gazebo, where the roses had grown thick and wild. Though they had been trained to grow away from the path, she had liked the riotous nature of them, had let them run rampant everywhere else.

            She thought she was so sneaky, peering out at him from the other side of the roses - but her fair hair and bright eyes gave her away every time. He suspected she simply enjoyed making him to chase her.

            Whirling to his left, he bent down, looked her straight in the eyes. "Did you really think you could get away with lobbing pebbles at my head?"

            She blinked back at him, grinning, secure in her safety on the other side of the insurmountable rose bushes, protected by the veritable wall of thorns that separated them. "No," she admitted. "But you haven't caught me yet."

            He gave her an indulgent smile. "But I will. I always do."

            "That's what I'm counting on." And she turned and fled, shrieking with laughter as he followed, his footsteps pounding on the path as he raced to the end, where the roses broke and he could slip through to pursue her.

            His longer strides ate up the distance between them as they sped along the sprawling lawns; at last he was close enough to dive for her - he caught her waist, toppling them both to the grass. But it was lush and green; the only injuries they'd suffer would be grass stains, which neither of them had ever particularly cared about.

            Her hair was mussed from their tumble; it has escaped its ribbon entirely, fanning out in a soft wave, inviting his fingers to slip into it. Which they did, of course, and he kissed the last of the breathless laughter out of her until she was soft and quiescent beneath him.

            "Vaan's been on me about marriage," he grumbled. "You keep saying _not now_. I want to know when you intend to make an honest man out of me."

            She held up one hand, wiggled her fingers before his face. "Five months."

            He arched a brow inquisitively. "Five months?"

            She draped her arms around his neck, said, "I want lilies."

            "Lilies?" He had clearly missed something somewhere.

            "For the wedding. There's got to be flowers, you know. I want lilies." She shrugged, as if this ought to be self-explanatory.

            Incredulous, he craned his head over his shoulder towards the flower beds, which were filled to the brim with lilies. She could have lilies from any vendor in Archades, as many as she liked. Why would she put him off five more months for them?

           Sensing the bent of his thoughts, she said, "Not _those_ lilies. Come on, I'll show you." She cast him a secret smile, the one that made her eyes sparkle, her face glow. Always she had secrets - he imagined that every time he discovered one, she merely set about acquiring a new one.

            He helped her to her feet, and she kept a tight clasp on his hand, leading him across the grounds, towards the greenhouse. He'd had it built for her shortly after they'd returned to Archades two years ago, so she might have flowers even in the depths of winter. The very moment construction had been completed, she'd kicked him out and he'd not been permitted within it since. It was her haven, her private bower - and she allowed no interference within.

            Inside, the air was warm and humid. It smelled fresh and green, of rich earth and clean water, plants and flowers bloomed in lush profusion. She skirted a table, hidden behind a wall of greenery. Moments later she reappeared, a small pot in her hands in which bloomed a single flower.

            She handed it to him. "This," she said briskly, "is a hybrid lily. I bred it between a stargazer from the garden and the lily you sent to my room." He had confessed to that much, finally - and had sent her many more in the years that had passed. Her room had acquired so many blooms that the maids complained of having to lug in so much water to keep them alive.

            The flower in his hands had the same distinctive upward-tilting blossom of a stargazer, but its coloration was unique; the vivid pink of the stargazer bordered yellow so vibrant it was almost gold, creating swirling patterns amidst the petals that looked rather like -

            Rather like _butterflies_. Golden wings stretched across fuchsia petals. Looking for all the world as if at any moment they might beat their shimmering wings and alight into the air.

            "I'm calling it a butterfly lily," she said. "Do you like it?"

            "It's beautiful." His voice came out rougher than he would have liked. She'd _created_ these, wrought a work of art in a blossom with her own hands, nurtured them, kept this secret for years. "I take it that these are the lilies you want?"

            She nodded, leaned back against the table, braced her hands upon it. "There aren't enough of them yet, but they're growing true. Five months, and they'll be ready." She offered him a tentative smile. "Will you marry me, Balthier? In five months?"

            Carefully he set the lily aside, drew her into his arms, and whispered into her ear, "Darling, I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
